Archive of Our Own ^beta

i. i can’t help but love you / even though i try not to

(Dear Fischl, 

or Amy, whichever name you prefer. Though it would be lovely that you still refer to yourself by the first, I would not force it upon you when, at the end of the day, I only wish for your true happiness. I wanted to write to you because—because, well, (oh, pardon the ink that has bled through the page, this is my umpteenth effort at writing to you but even still, I fail to make it past the first sentence), my wedding with Aether, the young traveller, has been called off. 

It has been many months since we last exchanged letters… but I miss the sound of your words, and receiving a piece of your imagination every time I open the awaited envelope. 

Oh, Fischl—I miss you so dearly, my heart aches in your absence. I hate myself for being so poetic but it seems a part of your personality has rubbed off on me as well. I fail to let go of the side of me I have taken from you. You must be wondering what happened to the engagement when it should have been my dream. Aether should have been my beloved, I realise. He’s a fit young man, surely good enough for me. He’s charming and perfect in every way—careful, considerate, loving. Unfortunately, 

ah dear, Fischl, please forgive the stains on the page. The smudged words, they are nothing. (Don’t worry too much about the scratched out words as well, I… I couldn’t pull my mind together). I realise, I can’t bear to be wedded with a man I don’t love. I have always been a romantic, and this would be my dream as a smaller girl but… there is no place for a man in my dreams. 

These few years I have been in separation from you have left me empty. I have written so, so many letters in my time and I truly wished to send them to you — but I couldn’t. I feel bad every time, reading your epistolaries and knowing that I don’t wish well for myself the same way you do. You’ll ask how it’s possible to fall out of love so suddenly, and tell me wishful tales about how a fair maiden such as myself only deserves the most kind, handsome men but I can only tell you: it was not love at all.

Do you understand it? I hardly do. I realised, along the way, that I didn’t want a future that had no space in it… for you. It happened so suddenly; the realisation that Aether and I would never be as close as you and I, that I could never look at him and our unborn children with that much love as I do with you and our gardens. 

I am so sorry. 

You may never forgive me, and you may believe that I forgot about you in preparation for my wedding but believe me — I have spent every second of my days yearning for you. It may be too late for me to see you again, because you may hate that I talk to you again, and I talk only with sorrowful news. You may never forgive me because I am too late, (oh, please, I always hoped I wouldn’t be), and we will never fulfil our promise of being wedded and happy with loving husbands. You may hate me for never telling you the awful, twisted truth about myself (even though we vowed to never keep secrets from each other). 

So, even if you will resent me, I must confide one last secret in you, as your bestest friend. The night before my wedding, I saw you standing at the end of the aisle instead of Aether. (In a white dress, hair braided with purple roses; just as we had hoped for ourselves when we were children). 

Forgive me. And if you are, out and beyond, in a white dress with your hand held kindly by a man’s, I wish you the best love with him. You would make the most beautiful bride. 

– Loyally yours, Noelle)

When she posted the letter, Noelle had no regrets. She’d written every word from the bottom of the heart, and they stood as testimony to the numerous crumpled drafts that lay dead on the floor of her bedroom. The guilt that followed afterwards was like no other, and she’d spent many nights in tears—both, withstanding the weight of her confession and with the knowledge that Fischl would resent her for destroying what they could’ve had because of filthy emotions that she could not shun any longer. But Noelle meant for her dear friend to know every word, to accept the piece of her heart she left in the mail, knowing that they would never see each other again. 

Then, on one evening, colder than most others—Noelle feels an ache in her chest. A familiar one; the dangerous flicker of yearning that she must drown in cold water before they overcome her again. She presses her body against the window frame, watching as raindrops pelt from the livid sky, slowly leaving marks where they fall upon the glass. There is a gentle patter upon impact, more graceful than the thundering of the sky. Noelle raises her chin, eyes glassy with the tease of oncoming tears. 

Just beyond her, she hears a knock on the door and then the clatter of plates. Her mother has stopped trying to pry her out of the room, thinking that she was only left depressed by the failed engagement. She has tried whispering against the door, “There will be other men who will be a better fit for you”, or “I know sons of good noble families who would love to marry a girl of your upbringing”, yet fully unaware of the true reason behind her turmoil. 

In all truth, Noelle cannot tell her the real reason behind it. She cannot tell it to anybody else either. 

There is no place in society for young women like her, she has realised with time. It has been a week since she has left her room and the wedding dress she could have worn lies solemnly on her bedframe; entirely untouched. She would have looked ravishing in it, she has been told, and she believes it herself. It has a train that stretches three metres and a skirt woven with lace roses. Noelle, however, could never wear such a beautiful dress with unfaithful feelings. It could only happen in the rare chance that she has finally grappled with her reality and managed enough strength to agree to a marriage with a man—  

Noelle closes her eyes firmly as a whimper leaves her mouth. She lies her hands on her dress weakly, listening to the sound of the rain as it coaxes her into hopefulness, telling her that all is not lost. She presses her lips together and opens her eyes again, tears forming in her eyes. Looking beyond the glass which is already distorted by the rain, her tearfulness only dampens her ability to see even more. Listening to the melody of nature’s sounds, her heart starts to flare again—oh dear, it’s happening again. She presses a hand to her chest and lurches forward, each beat aching worse than the last. 

Noelle prays to the heavens to save her but shuts her mind immediately after, so dreadfully embarrassed to be asking for the mercy of angels when she has strayed so far. She does not know how she will go to the cathedral and sing hymns of prayer when she is so tainted—and tried to deny it for so long. Noelle clutches onto her chest and tries to quell the horrible, horrible emotion, trying to shove and pack it away to a corner of her heart where she must never return to it. This flame—it has burned for too long. 

Then, for a brief moment, she catches a glimpse of buttery yellow across the world of melancholy blues. She sits up against the window sill, back straightened and her lips apart with shock. Noelle makes a sound of surprise, incredulous even, and forces loose tears away from her eyes. Her chest starts to burn again, embers spreading and spreading till there’s no longer a crevice of her chest that hasn’t been charred by a disastrous hope. You must not let it overcome you. You must not—Noelle cups both her cheeks but there is a single shrill ring that ricochets, like a church bell, that sends her hurtling. 

Noelle pushes herself off the window and onto her feet, still in her nightgown. The halls of her home are dark with shadows still clinging to the corner. She sees her mother in the middle of the corridor, holding a single candle whilst watching her with concern. “Where are you — ” she begins, having never seen her daughter run with so much haste. 

“I will attend to the door,” Noelle interrupts, and it’s very unlady-like of her, but she has forsaken old morals for long enough to commit to properness in a time like this. She scampers down the stairs, each wooden plank creaking with the thumps of her footsteps . Each moment in time exists as an eternity of its own, slowing the world into a landscape of blurred colours and sounds. Noelle hears an old song playing at the back of her head, over the sound of pouring rain and then, she reaches the door. 

She clamps her hand around the knob and before she can exhale a breath, her arm tugs it open. Truly enough, her heart stops then and there. 

Fischl stands in the middle of a storm, at the door of Noelle’s home, her fingers clenched around a letter with ruined ink and drenched writing. A few years has done much to change both of them — her old friend is taller than she used to be at sixteen. Her blonde hair is longer, reaching her waist and no longer tied in pigtails the way they used to be. She wears a grey dress with puff sleeves and the most beautiful lace pattern to frame her neck. Noelle’s sure of it now — the heat has reached her face. She tries to step aside and mumble an invitation inside but the latter refuses. The first words she utters are, “How could you?”

Noelle feels such a horrible, twisted feeling in her stomach. Her skin pales and she can only look at her old friend with much regret in her eyes, feeling so guilty to have written her burdens on a page and expecting forgiveness from dear Fischl who deserves so much better than her misfit company. “I’m deeply sorry,” she chokes out, trembling hands clasped in front of her hip. She can’t bear to raise her head, for whatever is left of her dignity. “I… truly am. You must think I’m disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” Fischl yells, waving the papers through the air. Noelle looks up at her, standing still drenched in the rain. It’s awful, looking at her like this, because she doesn’t deserve to bear the wrath of a thunderstorm while Noelle is just beyond her, under a roof and undeserving of even so much. They exchange several moments of wordless breaths and unspoken words, neither knowing how to continue. Fischl is stubborn; she neither moves from her place nor changes that pained expression. Thunder grumbles in the yonder and it hardly fazes her. “I — ” she stammers, at a loss for words.

Noelle looks at her with pleading eyes. “Please come inside. I cannot bear to see you like this,” she begs, with what little strength is left of her. She takes a step backwards and reaches out a hand, inviting her old friend inside. Fischl bites her lips till they’re bruised, yet none of her attempts prove successful to her attempt at biting back tears. She tilts her head, and looks down at the papers in her hand as though they’re even mildly readable before looking at Noelle again. 

“After so long,” Fischl chokes up. “After so long—”

Noelle lowers her head, shaking it with guilt. “I am so sorry. I wasted it all—” 

“You return my care, at last,” Fischl ends. It doesn’t dawn on Noelle, the meaning of those words, when they’re first said. It seems to hang in the air, lingering within the silence until it crashes down on the hideaway bride what they mean—and then, they start threading themselves into her skin. Noelle snaps her head up in surprise, jaw agape and hardly able to think. Her heart thrums at her fingertips as she raises her hand another time, and Fischl looks back at her with her shining mint eyes, glowing like grass under the shine of morning dew. She holds Noelle’s hand and leads her one step forward. 

Noelle squints her eyes, hardly able to believe it. She tries to muster words but they vanish every time she opens her mouth, none ever carrying as much meaning as she would like them to. Her flesh burns where it brushes against Fischl’s till their hands finally intertwine, setting her entire body aflame with the most unthinkable feeling known to any woman. She doesn’t mind it even when she’s slowly pulled out into the rain, trapped outside of her mind to feel and feel with so much capacity that it crosses rational thought.

“I cannot make sense of it,” Noelle tries to reason as the door slowly closes behind her. “I—you wished me well on my marriage, and you told me that you would be so delighted to see me wedded. And we’d always promised to each other that we would be together, forevermore, as bestest friends, never—” 

“Noelle,” Fischl cries, her voice hoarse. She presses her papers against her heart and a sob wretches out of her throat. Her lips contort into the happiest smile. “I would have sacrificed my life for your joy . You have talked, and talked for hours about your dream and how you wished to be a proper lady. The only way to do so was by pleasing your parents and being married off to a young man, something which I could not starve you of, despite my own selfishness. And, yes, it is now such a felicitous twist of fate but could I ever have told you to your face that I wished your marriage to fail? Could I have borne your tears? I am simply… in disbelief,” she babbles, her voice shivering with emotion.

Noelle looks at her, and then the letters in her fist. There is a carriage awaiting them just beyond them, on the cobblestone road, and it must have taken Fischl hours to travel across cities to visit her here. She takes a firm step forward, paying no heed to the coldness of the rain that has already reached her bones. Noelle, with trembling hands, slowly wraps her arms around Fischl’s shoulders. “You allow this to vex you, when you have borne witness to the unveiled secrets of three thousand universes?” she questions. 

Fischl hides her face in the nape of Noelle’s neck. “I would hate to be a bride.” 

“I would not hate to be yours.” 

ii. i can’t help but want you / i know that i’d die without you

(Dearest friend,

I hope you are doing well. I am aware that the nature of this letter is sudden, and that it’s improper of me to contact you so abruptly. However, you know that I would not ask dire favours of you if the situation didn’t call for it. 

Noelle’s mother and I will be travelling for a while. She is needed urgently across the country, where her parents stay, due to an unfortunate event that has occurred within her family. However, we are unsure how long we may be there and would not like to bring Noelle along with us, as we fear her safety would be compromised if we were to take her to travel. Consequently, I thought the country life might benefit my dear Noelle. I would like her to continue school, so she may continue to learn proper etiquette and continue her extra-curricular activities without disturbance. If you would allow, it would be lovely if she could join Amy in her schooling. 

Amy is a lovely young girl but she is a tad… reserved, isn’t she? I believe Noelle would be a good influence on her and with enough time, they will grow to become close friends. That way, each of them will have a reliable friend of good character to depend on as they grow older. Perhaps your Amy would learn to be more outgoing, and her grip on poetic language will rub off on my Noelle. In any case, I don’t see how this would be a problem for our daughters and if you’re willing to accept my daughter, would humbly request this favour of you. 

I trust you will treat my daughter well. After all, you have always had a soft spot for her and much to your amusement, actually, she has recently mastered ‘Canon in D’. Your favourite piece, isn’t it? She’ll be good to you and your family, I promise. 

– Your dearest friend)

At the age of sixteen, Fischl is still incapable of holding a proper conversation. She has vexed too many of her tutors by this point; each complaining that she doesn’t speak well and on the rare occasion that she does open her mouth, it spits so much gibberish that most people have learned to prefer her with her mouth shut. She’s well-versed in poetry and literature, but her parents have always detested her habit of lodging a nose in a book and wasting her ‘blossoming’ years in a library. 

Fischl has always been content with herself as it is, in whichever lonely form she exists in, because the company of her books have always treated her better than that of people. 

Fischl doesn’t enjoy her schooling much either, apart from lessons on language which only aid her rapidly widening vocabulary, but it has proven to be manageable on the sole occasions that her presence isn’t taken notice of by the teachers. 

Ms Jean, who teaches maths, is polite, and doesn’t try to push her into doing anything she’s not comfortable with. Sometimes, she pulls Fischl out of class to ask if she’s doing alright, or if the other kids are picking on her — which, one would realise, would only be a problem if they took notice of her existence in the first place. 

At the news that her family would be receiving a pleasantly-awaited visitor from the city , Fischl feels a twist in her stomach. It’s a tumultuous emotion, quite traitorous as well—she would never willingly choose it to happen again. She takes it as sombre news, worrying the young girl would only mock her upon finding out the truth of her personality. 

During the night, before her arrival, Fischl is found in a corner of their family library by her mother. “My dear Amy,” she begins, holding a candle to her face. 

Fischl doesn’t lift her head in the sound of the name she doesn’t bond with. She flips another page and instead of sitting with her knees pressed to her chest, folds her legs instead. She presses her open book against her lap and continues reading, hoping her better posture would appease her mother and take her away. Fischl pauses for a moment as her mother inches closer and stares expectantly. Reluctantly, she allows a nod but doesn’t once peel her eyes off the book she has read a thousand times. “I would like to speak to you about our guest tomorrow,” her mother elaborates.

“You may,” Fischl replies coldly, but it’s only a learned tone. She says it so softly, however, any bite meant in her words dissipates as its feeble sound dissipates in the air. She flips another page, waiting for her mother to invite herself into her corner where she’s not invited. 

When she does, Fischl only inches away and does nothing else to speak of her unwillingness. “Noelle will be living with us for a few months, if not a few years. Her parents are travelling and we are unsure how long they may be separated from her so you must—” her mother speaks, but noticing Fischl’s complete distraction and whole attention on her godforsaken book, snatches it out of her hands. “Have you no manners, young lady? What are you to do when the young girl steps foot in this house and finds you to be an improper girl? You’ll have even fewer friends, then.” 

Fischl has always thought her mother to be the better amongst her two parents. She is gentle and despite her harshness, can sugarcoat her words. She’d been the first person who edged her into reading, and bought her novels that her father opposed because ‘reading is not fit for a young girl’. When Fischl learned only long, pretty words from her books and never anything of use, her father said it was time she prepared herself to become a bride—indulging in stitching, crocheting… cooking… 

Fischl squirms at the idea of being a mother someday. Perhaps it’s because she’s young and can’t wrap her head around the concept of it, but being a princess in her books, leaves no space for a little gremlin who can’t fend for itself or a knight in shining armour. But now, it seems even her mother has turned against her into this terrifyingly evil form—talons clasped around Fischl’s beloved book as though she could rip it to shreds with the sheer venom of her gaze. “You cannot do that to a—” Fischl hisses, fighting back. 

“I am your mother,” the older woman reminds forcefully, slamming the book against the ground. The flame of the candle perfectly balanced in her hand has started to waver, despite it feeling as though there’s no space for oxygen in the room. Fischl’s breathlessness must be her own problem because her mother seems perfectly fine, chastising her like it’s not shattering her dreams. “You must let go of your kiddish fantasies already, Amy. You’re fourteen and have reached the time of blooming. You must learn how to become a good hostess and I insist that you befriend Noelle. She’s a lovely young girl, proficient in pianoforte, song, crocheting—” 

“I am not Amy,” Fischl insists stubbornly, sliding away from her mother. She presses her back against the bookshelf behind her, feeling her body shrink with every moment that passes her. Her mother glares at her like a terrifying beast, winged and with a forked tongue, and Fischl tries to summon a thousand soldiers from her mind to seize the soldier and force her mouth shut. But her mother’s mouth opens again and she rises to her feet, looming like a dangerous shadow. 

“I have entertained your fantasies for too long, Amy,” her mother says with a hardened tone. “You must snap out of this dream-like world you have built for yourself because you have detached yourself from reality completely. I expect you to be ready by the crack of dawn and the second you hear the trottering of hooves outside, you must stand at the door in attention.”

Fischl tries to argue, she truly does but before the words spill out of her mouth, the monster wags its finger at her and ties chains to her vocal chords. “I will not hear protest,” she barks with a tone of finality and leaving no chance for it either, storms out of the library. The door slams shut and Fischl is left quivering in her small corner, sitting beneath the cover of a shadow where even the moonlight cascading through the window fails to reach her. Her stomach starts to churn, like the manifestation of a storm and thunderous waves crashing against the walls of her stomach. 

Tonight, she’s certain either the stars must fall from the sky to lull her mind or she will not be blessed with even a wink of sleep. 

iii. i can’t help but be wrong in the dark / ‘cause i’m overcome in this war of hearts

Fischl turns in her bed as she hears a knock on her door, reluctant to wake up. She back-faces the door to show her defiance and watches the window instead—the sky which is slowly set afire by the intense, burning heat of the sun. Red billows like smoke across the nocturnal blue, brightening with such rapidly increasing luminosity that it’s like watching a miraculous endeavour achieved.

She hears her mother’s voice barking at her in the back of her mind, too loud to be ignored: “I expect you to be ready” —or else, Fischl would not dare challenge her mother and her fury. 

Still, feeling like a small, little thing in the awakening world, Fischl hides away in her bedsheets. Her skin is set afire with an indescribable tingling and a heat which rises up her throat, leaving it dry and hoarse and all things worse. She does not need to fit more people into her universe—in fact, she’s quite satisfied with the few that entertain her. There is no space in her waking life for more people, because Fischl is not ready to live with another devil within her walls. 

The door is eventually opened by one of her chambermaids who starts beckoning her out of bed. “The guest will be arriving soon,” she informs and it only makes Fischl wish she could vanish from this reality and succumb to one of her own making. 

Her maid does not need to force her, this time, because the repetitive barking of her mother’s warning words in Fischl’s head drives her mad enough to roll out of bed and drag her feet to the bathroom. She looks at herself in the mirror and instead of a tiara, she sees a nest of dishevelled hair—instead of a gown, the brilliant purples have faded into the awful stained white of her nightgown. 

Fischl peels away from the untruthful mirror and forces herself into the most inadequate routine for a princess. Instead of her mother’s choice, she chooses to wear a dress with a flared skirt and lace bodice, with puffed sleeves and floral embellishments around the hem of her cuffs. Even when her maid questions her choice of clothing, Fischl denies being disobedient. She asks for her hair to be adorned with charcoal roses, and ribbons the colour of tar—and in a lady’s eyes, too ugly for a girl with such pretty blonde hair. 

As she hears the tottering of hooves outside the window, Fischl feels her heart speed up in her chest and perks up in her chair. It screeches against the floor as she stands and the maid who had been fixing her hair retracts her hands abruptly, taken aback by her harsh movements. “Are you okay—” she almost asks but before the end of her sentence, Fischl is hurrying down the hallways. For a second, she forgoes the manners of a princess and runs at the tips of her toes, as though they are lighter than air. 

Fischl hurries down the stairs and by the time she’s ready at attention, there are already loose strands of hair trying to flee from her ponytails, and her face is flushed with a hushed, roseate red. Her mother looks down at her, almost approvingly, until she takes full notice of her daughter’s attire. Her father, who is on her right, pushes his nose higher up his nose bridge—almost too high, as he does when he tries to show his disturbance for anything. “Black?! To meet a guest as well, it’s completely—” he scolds. 

“I did not give her that dress,” Fischl’s mother yells over her head and the teenage girl stands between both of her parents, in the middle of their bickering once more. She raises her head to look at either of them, having initially believed she would not succumb to their prattling but she had overestimated her personality too far to think her conscious mind could handle their shouting. Fischl frowns, hugging her arms as guilt creeps up within her, crawling in her chest like a pest. She takes a few steps backwards so she’s no longer in the middle of their shouting, hiding behind the nearest corner. 

Moments later, there’s knocking on the door and the shouting ceases in an instant. Fischl curls her hand around the wall, eyebrows furrowed as she inches forward anticipatively. At this point, she’s better off hiding—after all, wearing black to greet a guest into the house is too solemn and only presents a negative image of her. When she is left on her own to return to her world of fantasy, she will be celebrated in her black dress and pigtails, not criticised, but she must bear with reality for a while longer. 

The door opens and a cacophony of outside noises shatters the tension which had been building up within the house—the ringing of the church bell to welcome morning time, the rolling of carriage wheels and young traders talking business in the market that’s just beyond them. Fischl can hardly see the guests at the door from her angle, but her mother wears the most pretentious smile and her father reaches forward to give another man a hug and a pat on the back. Fischl shivers as she hears her name being called and her parents turn to her with their stretched smiles, inviting her as though they weren’t barking seconds ago.

She trudges forward, holding the skirt of her dress worriedly. She takes a stand in front of the guests—a middle-aged man with long, white hair and valiant eyes and a girl that’s around the height of his waist and no taller than herself.

“My name is Noelle,” she introduces before Fischl can complete her analysis of the guests her parents greatly anticipated. The other girl has short, white hair with a braid wrapping the sides of her head, and a polite smile. Fischl feels… strangely comforted in her presence. Noelle curtseys for her in greeting so the latter does the same, still somewhat wary. “I look forward to making your acquaintance.”

Fischl would hate to make empty promises. She squirms in her place, not wanting to engage with this girl—already thinking of ways that she may free herself from inevitable interactions. It does not matter how polite the girl may seem or how much her heart seems to cajole her into thinking that Noelle isn’t as bad as she’s teaching herself to believe. Fischl feels her mother’s arm snake around her shoulder and tap it twice, a silent gesture to force her to speak. 

All this while, Noelle has been watching with the same smile, a memorised one, but with no impatience suggested in her facade. “It is my pleasure to have you,” Fischl welcomes as well, forcing out a smile. “My given name is… Amy.” 

“And your preferred name?” Noelle asks, with a small tilt of her head. 

Fischl’s eyes widen. She feels a throb in her chest—that of excitement as she looks back at the girl with a brilliant shine in her chartreuse eyes, having never been asked that question, ever. She feels her mother’s glare upon her, trying to bind her into silence once more but Fischl will not succumb. “Fischl. I quite like it more than Amy,” she continues, back straightening and hands trembling with excitement. 

“Fischl is a well-thought name,” Noelle’s father chips in, looking at little Fischl. “Perhaps you should have named her that, instead. Or it could be her pen name when she grows up and chooses to pursue writing,” he jests, chuckling haughtily. Something in what he says is supposedly funny enough to crack a laugh out of Fischl’s father—a thing she has not seen from the taut man in a long time.

“Please, you do not have to entertain her childishness. She will grow up one day,” Fischl’s mother adds, somehow uttering the most sinister statement with a laugh. She tightens her grip around her daughter’s shoulder, as though forcing her into place and whatever momentary happiness that Fischl found in the situation spills through the pores of her skin. Her smile fades and she lowers her eyes, no longer able to look her guests in the eye as the reality dawns on her that nobody will allow her to build kingdoms in the sky beyond mere pleasantries.  

iv. i can’t help but want oceans to part / because i’m overcome in this war of hearts

After the first day, Fischl is no longer forced to engage with the new guest. Her mother had given her a good scolding before bedtime about her inappropriate behaviour—her persistent defiance which had been perpetuated by her recklessness in letting Fischl around books that would fuel her imagination. Fischl ensured to hide a copy of her favourite books in a box under her bed, where the maids would not find them during cleaning. Her mother does not know her well enough to scry out the exact books she enjoys reading to hide them, so Fischl knows her books will be secure as long as she is not seen reading around her mother’s presence. 

The warning was sufficient enough to leave Fischl with such a wretched impression of her mother that she no longer wanted to leave her room and for days on end, would trap herself in her room with nobody allowed to visit her inside. Her parents could force their way inside, if they wanted to, but Fischl would only find new spaces to burrow herself in and the habit would only worsen. 

So, in the comfort of her bedroom, she would sit on a pillow beside her bed and flip through her beloved novels, memorising lines and becoming many, many beautiful things. One time, she was a runaway princess who wanted to save herself from an ill-fated marriage, and another time, she was a princess who was a dancer at heart. 

Sometimes, Fischl would see Noelle in the hallways. She lives in the bedroom across the long hallway, one that used to be unused for the lack of guests that their family has. She does not lift her head when that’s the case, but in the few mistaken moments that their eyes lock across a distance, Fischl fumbles out a smile and Noelle would return one even brighter, more sincere. Perhaps it would always be this way; watching each other from a distance till Noelle eventually returns home. 

Before school starts in two weeks, at the end of the summer break, Fischl’s parents have tried to cajole her into befriending Noelle so they would not hate each other’s presence entirely. To this, she replies that there’s no hatred between her and the guest, that she is fine with them living on as inconsequential strangers with no attachments. The quiet dinners have proven enough; the glances across the long table, and the quiet clatter of cutlery as they mumble meaningless conversations before returning to their rooms and repeating the same cycle the next day. 

Fischl is content with this, until one afternoon when summer is at its peak, and she’s reading quietly behind her bed when she hears a knock on her door. Her eyebrows crease as she rises onto her knees with haste, heart drumming in her chest out of fear. On such a day, her parents should have been out to the auctioneer’s market or out parading in the park, and her maids would speak across the doorway to alert her of their presence. Fischl tosses her book under her bed in a rush and scampers to the door, opening it so slowly that it only allows a slit for her to look through. 

She catches the scent of dairy and fresh honey, and looks out at the stranger at her doorway—who, with careful looking—is revealed to be Noelle. She holds a tray in her hands, bearing a plate of pancakes and billowing whipped cream alongside an electrifying purple drink. Fischl’s eyes glimmer with curiosity as she slowly pulls the door open. Noelle turns her head towards the gap in the door, seeing a part of Fischl’s face peering out even though there’s not much room, still. She smiles again, the same way she does every other time, and she says, “I noticed that you are fond of sweet things, so I wanted to make you my special dish. If you could allow me inside…” 

Fischl is hesitant. She narrows her eyes, trying to scry something wrong with the intruder who hopes to enter her sacred place. With her careful eyes, it should not be difficult to identify any harm in letting Noelle inside the space which contains her entire world—but Fischl feels a pull in her heartstrings as she locks eyes with the other girl and finds a piece of herself in her. Their eyes share the same green, but the way hers curve makes it seem that she’s that much more welcoming—the crease of her eyebrows that are always downward but make her seem more worried than intimidating, and the slightly-slouched posture with which she carries herself with… Fischl opens the door. “You may enter,” she whispers.

“Really?” Noelle perks up, so suddenly that the plate almost flies off the tray and tosses the pancakes into the air. Luckily, a disastrous accident doesn’t happen and she catches them perfectly, returning them into an even cleaner stack than they were in before. A cloud of steam billows as either of them stare at the plates, and then back at each other, expressions blank. Noelle tilts her head away to hide her flushed cheeks but Fischl lets out a chuckle of amusement, stepping aside to let the other girl into her room. She can be quite funny. Isn’t that lovely? 

“Your room is very beautiful. It suits your personality,” Noelle compliments as soon as she steps inside, but Fischl, still standing at the door, finds that the latter complements the beige walls and white curtains much better with her rosy character. She stands where the light from the sun shines on her, illuminating her silhouette. It’s such a glamorous sight—so much so, if Fischl could capture it in words and immortalise it forever, she would imbue this memory within her forever. “Oh—my, I spoke too much again. Forgive my tongue,” Noelle bows, sliding the tray onto the desk. 

“No—uh, thank you,” Fischl bows back, out of courtesy. She glances at the plate of pancakes on the table, and a drink that looks absolutely delectable as its translucent purple is illuminated by the sun. Her stomach grumbles, reminding her of her lack of breakfast the earlier morning due to her stubbornness to appear at the breakfast table. She’d just begun the last volume of her most beloved series—‘Flowers for Princess Fischl’—her namesake. “My parents have put me on a strict diet. It has been a long time since I have eaten any… dessert, and pancakes are dear to my heart,” Fischl elaborates.

Noelle smiles, but this one is different from the rest. Instead of humility, there is a tinge of relief that lingers in her smile, grateful to have been able to converse with her hosts’ enigmatic daughter. She has been trying for some time, but she has heard from her own maids that Fischl’s no easy character to deal with. Coming with an offering in hand seemed like the only option and even now, Noelle believes she could be happy enough with the little progress they have made so far. 

They pause in a vaguely… uncomfortable silence which makes Noelle think that she has overstayed her welcome here. Tucking a couple strands of her hair behind her ear, she lifts her skirt for easier mobility and excuses herself from the room, “Ah, thank you for inviting me inside. It was a delightful exchange and you have a lovely way with your words.” Blushing furiously out of shyness, she tries to scurry out but accidentally kicks into something as she tries to flee from the situation. 

Fischl’s heart stops and a dreadful feeling sinks into her stomach. She takes a few steps forward, verifying the source of the sound as though she does not know it well enough—and then she sees Noelle bend over, rising up again only with a book in her hand. She tilts her head at it in confusion and turns around mechanically, intrigued by its cover. Fischl’s pupils dilate with fear, wondering all the cruel things she might say upon finding out her obsession with books—or the secrets that she may reveal to her parents. In the midst of her panic, she flounces forward and snatches the book out of Noelle’s hands. “Please do not speak of this to my parents. They will have my head off with,” she begs. 

Noelle looks at Fischl standing before her, trembling like an injured bird. She clutches her book against her chest like it’s the most valuable thing in the world but the latter can only cock her head in confusion, wondering why she would be so scared. Slowly, she reaches her own arm forward and clasps it around Fischl’s trembling hand. “I would never dream of it… Please do not be scared of me,” she coos in a soft, melodic voice. “I will never speak of this to your parents,” Noelle promises, in full words and it’s only when she does so that Fischl starts to calm down. 

She swallows deeply and wipes her nose in her sleeve, promptly turning around to sit on the section of the ground that’s hidden by her bed. She back-faces Noelle, saying nothing else except maintaining her stubborn silence. Noelle looks back at her, feeling terrible about picking up the book when she only meant to return it to its place without invading the poor girl’s personal space. Looking at the mess she has caused, she can only dip her head in embarrassment and drag her feet out of the door, leaving it closed as it always is—and perhaps, next time, it wouldn’t open for her again. 

v. come to me / in the night hours

Fischl has heard of the grand piano that has recently been installed in the foyer, but she dares not even look in its direction or her parents might continue to nag her about trying lessons. Although learning an instrument is a divine idea, she believes stretching her limits too far might suck her dry of all her abilities, and her literacy is something she would hate to lose, regardless of the sacrifices that come with keeping it. With school’s re-opening due in a week, Fischl has only little time to accustom herself to being around humankind again, and she would have to brace herself for the terribly gripping feeling of loneliness. 

She has two friends, Bennett and Razor, who are both boys and the only ones who have ever cared to entertain her fantasies. In her mind, they are brave squires who strive for a future and courageously protect their princess in face of danger and strive—but of course, there are reservations about a young lady spending her time, unchaperoned, with two boys. Fischl dreads the thought of walking into the school once again, and having to plough through the same monotonous schedule, five days a week. 

Fischl’s thoughts keep her awake one night, leaving her twisting and turning in her bed as her stomach stirrs feelings of nervousness and anxiety. She can feel the blood gushing in her veins, leaving her dizzy but so awfully uncomfortable in her bed. Summer is rarely this unbearable in this part of the country, especially when there have been plenty of accommodations to ensure the heat is manageable. Still, Fischl kicks off the bed and buries her head in her hands, head throbbing. 

She looks out at the window, at the moon shining so beautifully upon her. Fischl feels her heart calling out to the moon and its many stars, praying for it to save her from this torture she calls reality, allowing her to float in an island of dreams instead. Wakefulness is, perhaps, one of the worst feelings in the world for the young girl who wants nothing more than a reason to escape the truth. And then, she feels a gust of wind rattle the window, as though asking her to open it. Fischl’s brows crease as she steps forward, hand hovering over the window sill. The wind rattles the glass again so she lifts it at last, and the most refreshing breeze blows against her face. 

Fischl raises her chin to the sky and exhales deeply. Then, the moon asks her, “ What do you believe is fit for a princess? Come, tell me your wishes. ”

“I do not know, really,” Fischl talks back to the wind, gripping to her window. “As a princess, it would be so lovely to have a dance in the moonlight with my lifelong beloved, only the most charming person with a beautiful heart that yearns for me as much as I yearn for them. Father would hate it if I did, but that’s what makes it so thrilling, and you certainly do not think I have to break out of my fantasies, right?”

The moon doesn’t answer her question. Instead a wind so strong blows, that it pushes Fischl off her balance and throws her onto her feet again. She spins around on her heel, her hair tousled by the nightly breeze and in the quietness of the moment, catches a small sound behind her bedroom door. She raises an eyebrow in curiosity, walking forward with careful steps so as to not pressure the floorboards. Fischl pries the door open with a feathery touch and when she does, hears the most melodious sound. 

A perfectly-strung song, wafting through the air like a scent that could charm a crowd for miles, catches Fischl’s attention as she steps out of the door. She closes her bedroom door slowly behind her and walks on the tips of her toes, cautious to make no sound at all. She walks down the stairs, step-by-step and her shoulders slouched as though it would make her any better at hiding. Then, as she makes a turn around the staircase, she sees the piano sitting in the foyer and the silhouette of a pianist on it. Fischl pauses there, mesmerised by the beauty of the song. She taps her fingers against the wooden rails, learning the rhythm and the beat as a pair of hands glide over the keyboard with grace. 

Listening to the song, even in anonymity, is like being taken by the hand and whisked into a waltz by an elegant stranger and certainly, this is what a princess should feel like on a sleepless night—graced by a moonlight sonata. 

Fischl peers over a little more and Noelle slouches forward even more, as though dedicating more of her focus on reaching the end of the song; far different from simply finishing it. Fischl finds herself drawn to the music, enraptured by it wholly. She steps forward, and through the cracks in the windows, she sees the light cascading into the room. 

Standing close enough, she feels as though she is donning a gorgeous evening gown—midnight blue—and her hair tied with satin ribbons and lace. She imagines that she’s the centre of a dancefloor, in the middle of a spotlight where she spins and sways and swishes to the sound of the music. 

Fischl hums the song under her breath, waltzing with herself in the darkness, but doing so perfectly like she has a partner. Beyond her, the pianist continues with closed eyes, unbeknownst of her audience. As the piece increases its pace into an allegro, Fischl continues spinning on the tips of her toes, reaching her hands high into the sky like she could pull stars and hold them in her hands. 

It’s such a whimsical, mysterious feeling—one that Fischl has never felt before. By the time the last note is pressed and the end fades into the quietness of the night, the princess’ dream has yet to end. Still with so much admiration in her heart, she scampers to the pianist while her hands are still hovering over the keyboard, a bead of sweat falling from her forehead. “You are the most…  luminous person I have ever met,” Fischl cries, out-of-breath from her dancing. 

Noelle snaps her head in the sound of the foreign voice, retracting her hands from the piano. A brief expression of panic flashes over her face for fear that she might be scolded, but she sees Fischl standing in front of her instead, still in her nightgown but looking as though the light of a thousand stars are shining in her eyes, and she rests her hands yet again. Her heart continues to thump wildly in her chest but Noelle fails to show her gratitude with words. “I… I am honoured,” she manages. Fischl starts walking towards her with more confidence then, sliding a hand against her face. 

“I wonder how your face could turn such a pretty shade of vermillion? They are like… apples, newly blossomed and untouched, fresh from the Garden of Eden,” Fischl describes and her words may be so poetic, but they can hardly encompass the truth. Noelle’s eyes widen at the compliment, having never expected anything so… warming from the girl who was sure to have hated her. She feels the tips of her ears burn as well, and then the part of her face where Fischl is holding. She would’ve never taken the latter to be so confident with her gestures as well, which only proves how little they are acquainted. 

Noelle swallows and tries to move her face away from the grip of Fischl’s hand. “I do not know, but I am known to get shy too quickly. But I am hardly as beautiful as you imagine me to be,” she replies humbly, cupping her hands over her lap politely. 

“Could you play it again?” Fischl questions. Truth is, Noelle’s no master that the adults say she is. She’s far from reaching mastery, and it has been a long time since she has attempted this piece. It’s hardly close to perfect, and she would hate to offer a performance while it’s rough around the edges but looking at Fischl’s emerald eyes which are so honest and gleaming, she can’t find it within herself to say no. Her fingers may be calloused from how much time she has been playing the piano, but she does not speak about her pain. Noelle shifts on the bench and pats the place beside her. 

“Would you like to see me play?” she offers and notwithstanding Fischl’s dream of admiring such a marvellous instrument played up close, she accepts the offer zealously. She slides onto the leather seat, and even though the two of their bodies are pressed up against each other, Fischl does not feel as small or lacking as she would alone in a massive room. Noelle takes a deep breath before positioning her hands over the piano once more, flexing them in preparation. There is some elegance in the way she maintains herself even before the performance, that Fischl starts to realise she’d been too cynical in thinking badly of Noelle before offering her a chance. “Is there a song you’d like me to play?” Noelle asks.

“If I were a princess, I’d always imagined I would have a theme—” Fischl begins. “I doubt it exists, though. It must be a tune I made up in my head.”

“Could you sing it for me then?” 

Fischl looks at the pianist, expression paused in one of surprise. Noelle would like to know my… music? It was such an unthinkable possibility, especially when barely anybody has shown interest in her fantasies beyond her two friends at school. She places her palms on her lap and clears her throat. Parting her lips slowly, she starts to sing like a nightingale; a lullaby powerful enough to set a kingdom to slumber. Noelle starts to play once she has caught onto the tune, her fingers flying over the keyboard with caution and care, out of utmost respect to Fischl’s song. 

They learn a part of each other along the way, learning something about each other as their music intertwines, in whichever vastly different ways they’re presented in. Fischl can feel her heart aflutter, this fluttering feeling like the wings of a butterfly brushing against her insides before leaving tingles across her skin—but she has never felt so happy. She has always hated the butterflies in her stomach because of the torrents they cause but the ones now grow gardens and forests of magic in every inch of her body, creating her a home in the body she’d never been comfortable in. Noelle’s music works like an angel’s harp, stringing together such a delectable flurry of emotions that’s like music. 

Suddenly, they hear furious footsteps and Fischl feels the heat of an approaching flame so she stops singing at an abrupt pace. It could either be a maid or her mother awake at this time—and neither outcome would be good for them. Noelle’s playing comes to an abrupt stop as she’s grabbed by the wrist all of a sudden and Fischl pulls them both to their feet. “Follow me,” she whisper-shouts and makes a run into the dark living room. She knows a crevice enough to fit two people in the living room, beside the couch and the bookshelf next to it where there’s always been empty space. 

There used to be a cushion against the wall for when Fischl’s parents were supportive of her reading but with her never leaving her room and the books on the shelf being replaced with documents for her father’s papers, there’d been no use for the corner anymore. “They won’t find us here, but we must be quiet,” Fischl warns, pressing a finger to her lips. She leans her face up to Noelle’s, breathing the words against her lips and the other girl can only sit still and obey, however much flustered she is. “Or the evil henchmen will capture us and seal us away.” 

“Evil henchmen? ” Noelle repeats, incredulous. For some point of time, she seems fearful that they may actually be stolen away by some form of evil and banished away but she sees a woman’s body walk into the living room soon after, holding a candle to her face. Fischl’s mother—as expected, scanning the surroundings carefully, or however well she can with groggy eyes. “Oh,” Noelle makes a small sound of realisation and Fischl hushes her again.

Their sounds catch the attention of their ‘enemy’ at hand who advances towards them. Fischl presses her back against the wall and holds her breath, anticipating the worst ending for themselves. It should’ve been the perfect tactic to save them from trouble as this is the ideal place to hide in situations like this—why she knows, one might wonder, but a princess must know her castle best. 

Noelle presses her lips together, mind dizzy with worry as she starts to conjure a thousand reasons to not blame young Fischl and send her back to the countryside—and in the moment, the only right thing to do feels like holding each other’s hands. In the heat of the moment, neither of them oppose it.

Fischl’s mother, during her path, knocks into the corner of the coffee table and lets out a grimace. She massages where there’s now likely a bruise, cursing under her breath. “Lord, I must be hearing things. I should visit the doctor again,” she grumbles under her breath and charts her course again, returning to her bedroom where she’d come from. 

While Noelle heaves a sigh of relief at the crisis successfully averted, she notices a smug grin plastered on Fischl’s face as she makes a victorious gesture to celebrate. It’s a strange thing—a combination of finger contortions that she has never seen before. She doesn’t speak much about it, nevertheless. “We have succeeded in our battle against the malicious enemy! Shouldn’t we be so proud?” Fischl smiles, turning towards Noelle brightly. She cups their hands together and raises them, faces leaned so closely that the latter starts to wonder if the reason why her nervousness is so uncanny to most occasions. 

Noelle can hardly focus on their supposed ‘victory’, but the fact that Fischl looks as though she is shining with joy, the pure kind of happiness she has not seen from the girl in a long time. Her heart dances, overjoyed to have finally gotten on the favoured side of Fischl.

“If you were in my kingdom, I would treat you to the sweetest raspberry cider and marvellous apple pie—and, of course, pancakes but none would be better than the ones you gave me.”

“You ate them?” Noelle replies shortly, surprised. She would’ve expected the dish to be thrown away, or neglected entirely from the way she left the situation the last time they interacted. Fischl’s expression dims for a second as a slow realisation dawns on her. Her smile falls, not so much that it becomes a pout but she averts her gaze and Noelle recognises this emotion—she’s gotten shy. Her gaze drops as she notices the grip around her hand loosening, and her hands feeling emptier than she’d like. 

Fischl speaks with a toothy smile, face flushed with embarrassment. “I am no good with my feelings, nor my expression of words. I owe you an apology for my stubbornness, and for never treating you properly despite my mother’s wishes to get along with you. But I fear you would find me questionable. I am not a bad person, though, and I loved your pancakes—from the bottom of my heart,” she confides. She releases her grip on Noelle’s hands but continues to look earnestly into Noelle’s eyes, hoping her sentiments would spill through her words. 

“I could never think you’re questionable,” Noelle gasps. “I found you fascinating from the second I saw you in your gorgeous black dress.” 

Fischl’s heart warms like never before. “Truly?”

“Truly.” 

───────

And the next morning, when the maids have awoken at dawn to complete the cleaning around the home, one of them finds the fabric of a nightgown peeking out from behind the couch. Curiously, she approaches the sight, wielding her broom in her hands for the fear of a terrifying sight. She walks closer and closer but the sight that graces her only sends a pang of affection piercing through her heart. She beckons another maid over, and then another, and the three of them watch with loving eyes—

Fischl with her head tilted to the left, leaning down against Noelle’s chest while the latter sleeps peacefully with her head pressed against the former. Cramped in such a small space, the maids can only wonder how they managed to fall asleep so easily—especially when they hadn’t seemed like good friends before. Now, looking at them from afar, two fourteen-year-old girls lying in each other’s warmth in a crevice of the world that’s their own, the maids feel almost bad for having to break them apart. 

Knowing their mistress, they would have to eventually;

perchance, their mistress could be awoken slightly later on such a lovely morning. 

vi. i will wait for you / and i can’t sleep

Fischl could feel the dread of school from the second she tucked into bed the night before. She’d even complained about it to her books, and the moon when it called her out at night. But when she spoke of her disinterest to her mother, she only returned to her troubles with a worn look and yet another round of scolding. Fischl didn’t want to sleep that night, knowing that she’d skip through time and school would come by much quicker so she dawdled in her room for a while. 

On a piece of paper, she tried to list reasons to be joyful: 

1. To meet Bennett again, 
2. To meet Razor again, (she wanted to add Razor in the first point as well, but she knows she’d run out of thoughts too quickly if she did)
3. To go to school with Noelle, 
4. To speak with Ms Lisa about literature, (Fischl likes Ms Lisa because she says to have read “every book written”; although it’s said that not many of the adults take liking to her character)
5. To tell Ms Jean that she must forgive me for my maths, (not much said here, it’s become a yearly tradition for her to apologise beforehand, for her insufferable ability with numbers)

Fischl couldn’t solve her qualms even then, finding that there weren’t enough reasons to cajole her obstinate mind. She folds her arms stubbornly and looks at the door, then wondering if she could creep to Noelle’s room to see if she’s sleeping. Then, she’d be able to complain about all that’s wrong about school before reassuring her that it would go perfectly fine since she’s new. Fischl stands up promptly, realising she might as well scurry over since she has an entire script prepared in her mind, of things to say. 

She’s been sneaking around the house to see what Noelle does—and the few times her mother has seen her conspicuously doing so, turned a blind eye to it for the sake of seeing her daughter roam outside her room peacefully. Fischl has learned some of the consistences of Noelle’s organised schedule: how she does the bedsheets in her own room even though she has her own maid, and cleans the parts of the home that she roams like the piano and living room. Noelle lives according to a schedule and it’s why her parents think of her as the ‘perfect daughter’ but Fischl has always wondered why she’d never wished for more ups-and-downs and unprecedented turns in her life. 

It’s difficult to imagine why one wouldn’t wish to live with adventure—so as Fischl counts her steps while walking along the corridor, she memorises her questions under her breath. Before walking in, she presses her ear against Noelle’s door. When she hears no sound, she knocks politely and waits with her hands clasped behind her back. As the door creaks open, she leans her face forward and whispers, “Your princess has arrived,” accidentally against Noelle’s face.

Noelle holds her friend’s gaze, having not expected her presence so soon. She glances at a clock with hopes of citing the time but to no avail, and with a pout, she clarifies, “It’s terribly late already. We have school tomorrow, do we not? And we have to be up early so we can travel…” 

“Come on ,” Fischl pleads, cupping Noelle’s hands in her own. “Let me inside, I have much to talk about with you, and you already wake up so early in the mornings so it surely cannot be a problem. Besides, I need to tell you about my books and I only want to give you my freshest thoughts.” 

Noelle frowns, but it eventually curves into a downward smile. She holds the door open and takes a step backward, and allows her spirited friend inside—although, it would be good if her high-spirits were spared for waking hours. She closes the door behind them, and lights a lamp for illumination. Quite honestly, she couldn’t sleep well either. She couldn’t understand why, since she’s been sleeping well on most nights since her arrival here but there’s an odd feeling in her stomach that she can’t stomach. 

Fischl’s gaze lowers where she notices Noelle’s collar soaked in sweat. She scampers forward, impulsively putting a hand against the latter’s neck without warning. She flinches, and her skin starts to burn up yet again—an annoying habit it has formed since her being around Fischl more often. She has tried to seek answers in books but she’s no reader and science has never been her forte. “You’re sweating profusely. Is something the matter?” Fischl questions, looking at Noelle with concern. She soon feels something odd against her fingers—pulses, a rhythmic beat. She takes a step closer and lowers her ear, intrigued by the phenomenon. “I think I can hear your heart.” 

“What is it saying?” Noelle questions worriedly. She doubts her heart could really be heard so easily, but knowing the young girl who has achieved so many feats (and has had a series of novels named after her), she would be a fool to doubt Fischl’s abilities by this point. She looks down at Fischl, trying to press her ear over her centre of chest before slowly shifting to the left. 

“Your heart is running with haste,” Fischl notes. “Do you have cold feet?” 

Noelle looks down to her feet and looks back up. “I… am nervous,” she concludes, not knowing what better to answer. Then, without a warning, she feels a warm hand wrap around her clammy fingers and pull her across the room, sitting her down on her bed. Noelle looks up at the other girl and her eyes sparkling with mirth; how she wishes she could read the mind of Fischl von Luftschloss Narfidort. 

“Come, we will voyage together throughout the night and you will no longer remember the jitters by the time it’s morning,” Fischl reassures, leaning forward to her, and cupping her with both shoulders. Noelle looks back at her with tired eyes but the most heartfelt smile, knowing she could not deny her friend’s presence, however much tired she may be. “So, tell me, if you received an honourable invitation to Princess Fischl’s castle, what would be the role you most desire? Your answer must be truthful, okay? Surely you don’t want to be only a chambermaid.” 

Noelle starts playing with her hair, for lack of an answer. She lowers her gaze to the ground, trying to think of a proper answer but the more she dwells on it, she believes Fischl might think bad of her if she said it out loud. After all, it’s not the kind of role a lady would wish for and—“So?” Fischl asks again, brimming with excitement. 

“I would like to be a…” Noelle begins with uncertainty. “Knight,” she says in a smaller voice.  

“Aha! A knight,” Fischl exclaims, in a much louder voice and with a bold gesture. She swings her arm through the air and her expression brightens with the luminosity of a supernova. Instead of the thoughtful frown that Noelle had anticipated upon mentioning her ‘non-traditional’ desires, she sees the growing smile on her friend’s face and feels one on her own. Somebody who doesn’t truly believe her aspirations are all that ridiculous— “I would make you my closest knight. A valiant battle maiden, and the one true knight in shining armour!” 

“You don’t think it’s… weird?” 

“Certainly not!” the latter corrects, pulling Noelle to her feet. “Did you know, in the pages I was reading, Princess Fischl is asked to dance by her closest knight, who is deeply and woefully in love with her? A waltz through the night, isn’t it the most beautiful thing?” she coos, sounding so very much in love. Her hair is untied and much longer this way, and even in nightgowns, Fischl could spare a part of her imagination to wear them both in flamboyant dresses. Noelle can hardly pay attention to anything apart from Fischl, much less her knotty words, and she thinks: my heart must have some defect if it beats so rapidly around my dear friend. 

And so reckless with their lives, they dance the night away. 

───────

Noelle and Fischl awake the next morning with little sleep and aching feet. It was a fortune that they returned to their own quarters the second they wore out enough of their imaginations because they could swear upon a lie and convince the adults that the night had been too warm to allow them proper rest. 

After a quick breakfast of bread and eggs, the girls set off with their bookbags and matching ribbons in their hair to grace the beginning of a new school year. The path to the school building is along the dirt road which leads through the nearby forest. Ms Lisa, from the school, often volunteers at one of the libraries near the promenade and has suggested many novels for Fischl to broaden her grip on language. On the way along their meandering paths, Fischl talks and talks and talks of the many sickening things—like the gossip shared by some of the girls, and maths , and the boys. 

Then, when she notices Noelle’s anxiety, holds her hand and starts talking about the perfectness of the day, and how it could never be ruined—like, the floating cloud in the shape of a heart and the sky which is aquamarine and clear. Sometimes, Noelle would interject with a word or two, otherwise, she was perfectly content with listening. She would admire the fields and invisible stars as they walk, and Fischl would turn to her with her heart throbbing even harder against her chest. 

And when her heart does start to quicken its place, she would feel the urge to squeeze Noelle’s hand even tighter and pull her into a hug but Fischl finds it too… bold, even for friends. 

───────

When they reach school, heads turn. 

Fischl gulps, but she can feel a pair of hands wrapping around her forearm for support, something she can’t provide with so many eyes following her every step. She glances around the room and hears a wave of whispers erupt across the room. Even the boys outside have stopped their games to take a glance inside the classroom, acting as though it’s the first time they’re seeing a girl. Noelle purses her lips anxiously, looking down at the floor but Fischl’s no better at handling this sensation. 

Word around the village spread quickly through the whispers of mothers and their chattery daughters, hearing of the arrival of a noble girl from the city. While most people in this part of the country are well-off, it’s nothing like living in Mondstadt where buildings are squeezed together like packed sardines and the paths are made of cobblestone, not dirt. (They even have electric lamps there!) 

Among the crowd of girls, one with blonde hair scampers forward, hooking her arm around Noelle’s. She looks Fischl up and down with a condescending raise of her eyebrow, and without words, attempts to shoo her away. The latter, helpless to it all, pulls her arm out of Noelle’s grip and takes a step back as Barbara whisks her along into the centre of the class. “God, your hair is simply the perfect shade of white! I have never seen it before, on a girl our age,” she praises, playing with Noelle’s hair. 

Fischl watches from a distance, her smile falling as she watches the girls in the class cluster together, celebrating the arrival of a new classmate who’s as pretty as them all, and nothing like an outcast. She clenches her jaw and looks down at her hands, questioning the ache in her chest. She should be happy that Noelle won’t have to face the same fate as her, that the girls love her and all the boys are staring—“What about Fischl?” she hears, then, and sees Noelle looking at her from the crowd. 

“ Amy ?” Barbara echoes, with a disgusted lilt to her tone, and all the heads turn. “Sit with us at lunch?”

Noelle’s expression contorts into one of guilt. She furrows her eyebrows and starts rubbing her arm in discomfort, no longer wanting to be at the centre of attention. Her classmates break into laughter, waving their hands in amusement and exchanging meaningless praise at the mockery. Noelle wants to break away, to escape from such a terrible group of monsters. Regret overwhelming her, she tries to find Fischl beyond the bevy of girls that crowd around her. Fischl, however, has already fled from the scene with a hand clenched around her skirt and biting away tears. 

───────

Outside the school building is a small patch of land that can, sometimes, be called a garden. Nobody tends to it because the seasons often deal with the issue of uncut grass and untrimmed bushes, and most of the teachers don’t have the time to spend on gardening. It’s kept company by the younger children who come out to play on alternative days, and Fischl who seeks solace in it when her schoolmates are too much.

There’s a pond with stone rims at one corner of the garden, where there’s a patch of land with no grass because of the plants they tried to grow when the school still had a garden. Fischl sits there when she needs some space to think, because it feels like the part of the ground she sits on is untouchable, and the grass on the rest of the field would not dare to inch its way towards her without permission. With a huff, she slams her bag against the ground and presses her knees against her chest. Looking over her knees, she watches the water reflecting the colour of the sky and her heart sinks. 

Noelle... Her mind thinks but never finishes the thought. She feels an unbearable itch poke at her body every time she recalls walking into class with Noelle, and how her friend’s now been whisked away by the monsters who’ll devour her with their yapping. What if she becomes one of them? Could I still be friends with a monster? Fischl ponders, but her heart sinks even more. She hides her face in her knees and regrets waking up in the morning at all, thinking of all the horrible things they’d do to her. Barbara’s especially bad because she’s Ms Jean’s younger sister, and most of the teachers turn a blind eye to her picking on, and favour her feigned courtesy. Fischl squirms at the thought of her. 

Fischl hears approaching footsteps and turns her head to the sound, wondering if she missed the schoolbell and was being found by a teacher; in which case, she’d have to hop onto her feet and brush the dirt off her stockings before she’s sent off to the head teacher’s office. Instead, she sees two boys running towards her, one of them calling out her name. She raises her hand to show a meek wave. 

“Are you okay?” Bennett asks with a frown. His hair is a mess with leaves and twigs, and there’s a myriad of bruises along his limbs that suggest Fischl should be asking him the question back. Even when she nods at him slowly, he doesn’t seem convinced by her answer. “Razor and I saw you run out of class. Did that meanie Barbara say anything to you?”

Razor sits on the ground beside Fischl. He mimics her pose, and rests his head against his knees to face her. He locks eyes with her for a few moments, trying to understand her emotions—so, when he sees a slowly drifting little thing and dimming colour in her eyes, he starts to understand what she feels. He pulls the corners of his mouth into a smile (though, he isn’t so great at it yet), hoping his disappointed friend would follow him. Much to his chagrin, she only shakes her head and looks away. Hopelessly, he looks up at Bennett and beckons him to come closer. “No listen to Barbara,” Razor says firmly. 

Fischl keeps her head facing away, unwilling to talk. Even if she wanted to, it’d be too difficult to force the words out of her throat. In moments like this, speaking becomes one of the toughest battles in the world, and she can only speak to anybody else with her eyes. Bennett sits beside her, and he tries to ask, “Who’s the new student? You came in with her.” He blinks feverishly as she buries her head in the crevice between her knees, feeling worse than before. Panicked and at a loss for words, he glances at Razor who only returns him with a blank look and a shrug. “Her name is… Noelle? Do you know her?”

Fischl nods her head twice. She hugs her knees tighter against her chest, and a gust of the morning wind blows in their direction. She feels the hair on her skin stand at their edges, prickling her skin with goosebumps. There is an emptiness in her chest where used to be her heart, and she feels so very hollow  when it should be so easy to be happy for Noelle. She stares aimlessly at whatever lies before her—endless green, and a small grass flower which emerges from it. Fischl imagines herself having the strength to crawl forward and pick it with her fingers, and when she does, it would magically turn into a bouquet of spider lilies. “She is staying with my family,” Fischl says softly. 

Bennett perks up with excitement. “Really? Is she very nice?”

Fischl’s frown deepens into a scowl. Beside her, Razor searches frantically for ways to cheer her up because leaving it up to Bennett’s only going to make things worse for the three of them. He crawls forward, towards the pond, and plucks something out from the ground. In the meantime, Fischl sits in silence, for lack of an answer to the question. She presses her cheek against her kneecap and upon giving it more thought, says, “ I’m not very nice.” 

Razor inches back with a dandelion in his hand, and holds it up to Fischl. He sits doggedly on both knees, holding the measly flower with two hands as he presents it to the disappointed girl. She raises her head sluggishly, but pauses as she takes notice of the flower in his hand. “You… very nice. Me and Bennett like you very much, so… no say bad things.” 

“I… was not aware we had dandelions on campus,” Fischl replies, accepting the flower. A small smile creeps onto her lips, unbeknownst to her, and only widens as she fidgets with the nimble dandelion in her hand. In front of her, the corners of Razor’s eyes crease as his lips stretch into a victorious grin, having succeeded at salvaging the situation when it seemed like Fischl was in unconsolable sorrow. “Should I make a wish?” she questions, looking at the two boys.

“Yes!” Bennett says loudly, leaning closer to her. He bumps shoulders with her and closes his eyes, as though he’s the one making the wish too. Looking at the latter, Razor follows, except not knowing what to say. Fischl, obligated by the situation, squeezes her eye tightly shut and clasps her hand around the flower. 

Summoning only the most true feelings from her heart, she makes a wish upon the flower. I pray that Noelle likes me very much. 

───────

In class, Fischl hikes to the last bench in the classroom where she sits alone with her things. It’s a table for the ‘spares’, the corner of the room that nobody likes going to because it’s too dusty and there are cobwebs under it that nobody cleans. Bennett and Razor sit at the back too, but they’re forced to sit on the boys’ side of the classroom so they don’t have the privilege of talking much unless they pass notes. Fischl isn’t too fond of passing notes because she ends up writing letters, and these letters could take hours to write. Instead, she tries to read her novels under her worksheets and waits for the hours to fade by. 

Somewhere during class, she feels somebody’s gaze pointed at her so she thinks it’s Bennett—well, he has the habit of staring when he’s worried or has something on his mind. She glances in his direction but he seems busied with something (trying to etch a drawing into the wooden table, supposedly). Fischl lifts her hand to her face and tilts her cheek against it, knowing it couldn’t be any good if anybody else is watching her, especially with their malicious, beady eyes.

Fischl is intent on making it through the day without any more trials and tribulations, because a princess mustn’t cry and her heart is only tolerant to so much pain. She doodles on her worksheet, unable to solve the troublesome question on her paper. Science must truly be the most detestable thing in the world. She taps the edge of her pencil against the worksheet when even her drawings have bored her enough until she hears her name from the front of the class. “Amy, what is your answer to the last question?” her teacher, Mister Albedo asks. She doesn’t resent him, but he’s terribly good at chemistry, which makes her detest his skill sometimes. Fischl looks up, and then down again, at a loss for words. 

If there wasn’t already a lingering gaze pasted to her, now the entire class is staring at her expectantly. She hears a snicker on the boys’ side of the class, and then she notices Xiangling lean into Hu Tao to whisper something in her ear with a smile. Fischl tightens her grip on her pencil as she feels the words die in her throat, leaving her with no strength to muster an answer. She can hear the ticking of the clock— tick, tick tick, and it’s terribly loud. From the corner of her eye, she sees Noelle sitting beside Sucrose, but looking back at her unabashedly. The temerity of her.

Fischl squeezes her knees together, shaking her head. How is she to know the properties of an acid?

Noelle rises from her bench, diverting the class’ attention to her instead. She grips onto either side of her skirt to calm her nerves, and stares at the teacher stiffly. Fischl looks back at her as well, sitting up on her bench with narrowed eyes. “Acids have a sour taste, and react with active metals to yield hydrogen. They also have… a pH of less than seven,” she explains, her voice trembling with uncertainty. It’s clear she’s not the most outspoken in the class but Fischl hardly pays attention to her tone. 

“That is correct,” Mister Albedo praises, scribbling the answers on a blackboard. Fischl is stunned—less by the fact that she delivered a perfect answer to such a tedious question despite it only being her first day, but that Noelle stood up in front of the class to answer a question on her behalf when she’s shy, and not much better with people than Fischl herself. 

Fischl glances over to where she’s seated, and notices Sucrose leaning towards her with a smile. She starts to gush over her answer, offering praise at Noelle’s knowledge of chemistry when it’s an arduous subject to master, or how she wishes to have her ability to answer questions so well in front of the class. Fischl stares pointedly at Noelle, tapping her pencil against the table as she notices a rosy blush dusting her friend’s cheeks, slowly getting redder as she tries to deny being extraordinary. She wears such a pretty smile for everybody. Fischl frowns as the tip of her pencil snaps off.

She looks up again, only out of curiosity, and she finds Noelle looking back at her too. 

───────

When noon arrives and it’s time for recess, Fischl pulls out the cold bottle of milk her mother had prepared for her, and an apple for her to eat. She has always requested the same lunch because with such simple objects, it’d be easy for her to imagine an entire banquet—from a single apple, she could be having strudels or pie and fountains of milk instead of a single bottle.

Fischl hears footsteps approaching her outside and assumes it to be Razor and Bennett again. She doesn’t turn her head to them, knowing they’d approach her regardless. She, instead, plops on the dirt patch in front of the pond and inches close enough to see herself in the water. She bends over, to see her reflection in the water and the footsteps suddenly stop behind her. To her surprise, Fischl sees something conflicting to her expectations and whips her head around swiftly. 

Noelle stands ahead of her, hands cupped in front of her hip. Her hands are wrapped around a container wrapped in cloth, and her own bottle of milk. She lowers her head and for the first time, instead of a smile, her face settles in a tearful one. “I’m deeply sorry I left you that morning. I truly wanted to sit with you as well, but I kept looking at  you and you never looked at me back. Even if you are angry with me, I wanted to apologise so you would forgive me. I can’t bear the guilt.” 

Fischl’s expression softens. She holds out a hand to Noelle. “I could not bear to stay mad at you for long.”

vii. because thoughts devour / thoughts of you consume

Then, in May, when the flowers are especially pink and the birds have started to chirp a melodious song in the name of a perfectly royal occasion—Fischl’s birthday arrives. It’s a tradition within the family to bake a cake by hand and decorate it as one wishes, and it’s the sole day of the year where Fischl’s parents would not talk bad of her fantasies and worship her like the princess she is. 

The birthday girl awakes right before her maid enters the room, kicking around in her bed with her fingers curled excitedly around her blanket. She opens one eye to steal a peek at the door before muffling a giggle and hiding beneath the sheets once more, waiting for her maid to enter and wake her firstly. Soon, she hears a familiar voice against the door that accompanies the knock, soft and surely not a maid’s. Noelle pushes the door open quietly and takes a step inside the dimly lit room, noticing Fischl still tucked nicely into her bed. 

“Are you awake?” she questions while waddling in. Fischl opens only one eye, but with it, notices her sneaky knight walking in with something in her hands. She walks with calculated steps towards the desk on the other side of the room and places a box on it. Then, she takes a peek outside through the gap between the curtains and exhales slowly. “Happy birthday,” Noelle wishes softly, turning to face the birthday girl one last time before excusing herself from the room. 

All the while, Fischl could feel her heart bursting with excitement, and she was seconds away from jumping out of bed to impulsively open the gift. She couldn’t have asked to see anyone else first on the morning of her birthday. Kicking off the bed, she runs straight to her desk, where she finds an envelope and a box, basking in the sun rays that greet her warmly. 

Fischl opens the lid of the box and inside, she finds a toy sewn by hand—a purple raven. Her eyes widen as she holds it up slowly, then under the light of the radiant sun. The light hits her face between the gaps of the crocheted toy but Fischl’s lips part with awe. A shimmer emerges in her eyes like a teal pond in the summer. She squeals out of impulse and dances around her room while hoisting the toy high in the air, her footsteps thudding against the ground in joy. 

Such an immaculate gift —Fischl could never have asked for anything more. She’d always dreamt of a loyal henchman, one that she could carry around, unlike Bennett and Razor (who are definitely fit enough squires already, but can’t follow her around much without causing speculations between classmates). 

Fischl stops only when her head is dizzy and looks at the toy in her hand. She would have to think of a fitting name for such a carefully stitched thunderbird, and she would have to do honour to its beauty. Her face brightens as a name dawns on her—Oz, like the fantastical city from one of her beloved books. 

Then, she remembers seeing a letter along with the gift and sees it waiting for her on the table. She hastens into a scuttle as she returns to her desk again, holding Oz against her chest. Fischl picks up the envelope and it smells like roses, as Noelle does. She presses it against her nose and inhales its scent deeply, a wider smile gracing her lips. Her chest is puffed with happiness and she could think of a hundred ways the day could get better. As Fischl walks to her bed with a skip in her step to read, she anticipates the wonderful things Noelle could have written for her—a heartfelt letter, or a simple card from a friend… any writing would be lovely from the loveliest girl. 

So, when Fischl opens the unsealed envelope and pulls out the page, she sees a letter written on lined paper—specifically the ones from their school notebooks. She cocks her head in confusion, gently brushing her fingertips against the edge of the paper to verify. Then, with much light-headed joy, she flips to the letter and finds that she would not have anticipated any of the words at all. 

(Dearest Fischl,

My princess, and my liege. I apologise if I have not addressed you properly. Unfortunately, I do not have much practice in writing to royalty. In fact, I’ve never written a letter before, but I have thought of the idea many times so forgive me for any errors (and I pray that you do not mind being the first recipient of my epistolary). 

I must just write two or three lines to wish you many happy returns on your birthday, although I find that writing this, even for hours, would not satisfy the purest thoughts I would like to share with you. I say this with much embarrassment but I’m afraid I don’t know you very well and, consequently, could not think of what to make for your birthday. It has been in discussion for around a week and truly! Knowing I had only a week was tough on my heart. 

I did not want to ask the maids for ideas (because, I believe, I have pestered them enough with my questions about you) and wanted to offer you a gift truest from the bottom of my heart. As your knight in shining armour, I believe you would need a loyal companion to assist you on tough journeys when I cannot be present in your life — somebody to call you His Lady and allow you to dream through tough nights when I am not there. Of course, I pray that we will be the bestest friends, forevermore, but a dutiful knight must stand respectfully at a distance and your newest companion may take my place. 

You may call him whatever you like, any name you deem fitting. (Do tell me afterwards, whenever you finish reading this… letter, as I would have to become acquainted with him as well). I do hope you enjoy his presence, and that my gift is satisfactory. 

On such a momentous day, I only pray for your brightest smile.

– Loyally yours, Noelle)

And it becomes the first of many letters that the two girls would exchange; 

except, it’s such a small mark in the grand scheme of time when Fischl receives it, that her heart is sent aflutter with the prepossessing string of words, wishing she could read them time and time again. She kicks her feet with excitement, stifling an excited squeak as she hugs the letter against her chest and throws her head back. Fischl falls against her bed and truly, this is the most sincere love she has ever felt. 

Noelle, who had been standing with her back pressed to the door, lifts a hand to her neck where she feels her heart talking to her again— today is beautiful. 

───────

(Dearest Noelle,

My knight-in-shining-armour. I believe you addressed me perfectly; in fact, I would not have asked to be called any other way. You need not worry too much about your writing, as I would be pleased to receive any from you, and if I may share my thoughts, I believe you’re a splendid writer already. It surprises me that you’re not well-versed in literature as your words seem perfectly crafted for a young knight. (On which note, I would like to add that I’m honoured, as your friend, to be the first recipient of your delightful epistolary). 

Quite frankly, I feel the same way as you. I believe I could leave this letter off at two lines and it would be sufficient but there is so much I would like to share with you, from the bottom of my heart, that I may be scribbling for centuries in my attempt to do so. It flatters me that you’ve spent the entire week thinking of a suitable gift for me — although I would like to say, I’m not a picky girl, a princess is a princess and I have been spoiled rotten. Needless to say, your gift was absolutely perfect! 

I have named him Oz, after the town from one of the fairytales I have been reading. It’s a lovely name for a companion, don’t you think? I will be sure to remain in his company and entrust my safety in his hands — but it would take a few days to get acquainted with him, surely. Even then, I am certain that you will always have a place in my life that cannot be fulfilled by a mere companion. You must… stay with me, for as long as you can, as I would be disheartened to ever lose my most beloved knight. Perhaps Oz would be able to hear me talk and talk for hours about my fantasies but only you can talk back, and you are the only presence in my life that I yearn dearly. 

To conclude this letter, I would like to return many thanks for your well-wishes. Any day spent with you, as my bestest friend (as I have royally decreed), will be a blessed one. 

– Royally yours, Fischl von Luftschloss Narfidort)

viii. stay with me / a little longer

“You must be back by noon!” her mother yells in reminder as Fischl bursts through the front door, Noelle in tow with their arms locked together. It’s a trouble running this way but the princess pays no heed to it as she keeps her eyes on the road. Her knight can barely keep up with her pace, a straw basket with food swinging through the air as she hobbles along in an attempt to catch up to Fischl. She’s rarely ever so boisterous unless she’s awaiting something eagerly, in which case, Noelle has no idea where she’s being led to apart from the garbled gibberish she listened to over breakfast. 

Fischl takes her down an unfamiliar path, certainly not the one that they take to for school, which leads to a quieter part of the village. Birds chirp in greeting as they scurry along the winding road, seemingly in a rush to reach a certain place. Noelle can only wonder where they’re off to with such haste— perhaps a performance, or a book sale of sorts? 

“We’re almost there!” Fischl exclaims, after many occasions of hearing Noelle’s breathless gasps and pleas to slow down. She seems ever-excited, which is much lovelier than the days that she feels under-the-weather, and it’s fitting for a day with crystalline skies and pillowy clouds. Fischl slows down only once they’ve reached something which looks like the end of a path, and a long stretch of wooden fences. They can see the outline of houses in the far distance—the lopsided roofs and the smoke billowing from chimneys, a simple sight which catches Noelle’s eyes as she pauses to heave a breath. 

An array of flowers surround them, smiling at them with their flourishing colours. The shade of the canopy above their heads stretches far beyond them, and the large oak bark beside them offers them protection from the summer sun. There is a stream only a few footsteps away, and what could be called a pond, if it were not only overflowing water from the stream. 

“What is it like in the city? I realise I’ve never inquired,” Fischl questions, jolting Noelle out of her momentary daze. She shakes her head, peeling her eyes away from the picturesque landscape to lay the woollen mat they brought along for their ‘picnic’. Noelle has never been on one before, but she has heard it happens quite so often in the countryside. “Did you hear my question?” Fischl tilts her head.

Noelle realises she’d been staring. She shakes her head. Nevertheless, a little flustered, she says, “It’s much nicer in the countryside. Mondstadt city can be quite nice but it’s so terrible and grey half the time. I had not seen a blue sky in years, for as long as I have been staying there, because the buildings are too tall and made it impossible to see the sky to begin with.” Fischl listens attentively while they’re laying out their things for the picnic—the mat, first, then the basket and the food last. Albeit slightly confused by Noelle’s bitter tone, Fischl leaves her questions for later.

“I’ve heard there are many shops there, in the promenade,” Fischl elaborates, plopping onto the ground. She follows Noelle with her gaze as she does the same, maintaining perfect posture while she is doing so. Not a single strand of her hair has moved despite their running, but Fischl’s certain her own looks like a nest, with the wind to blame. When Noelle looks at her, she sits up quickly and starts patting her hair. “ I have not thought about visiting the city, however. I am quite content with the bookshops we have here, in Springvale. The market is good enough for me.” 

Noelle looks in Fischl’s direction, not at her, but something around her. “I suppose there are,” she replies distractedly, not quite sure of the question. 

“Is there something in my hair?” Fischl worries. 

Noelle nods slowly, leaning forward. “May I help you with it?” she questions. Fischl permits, so she crawls forward till she’s on both her knees and reaches her hand into the air. She tilts her head, trying to look for the little thing which is enough of a bother to disrupt their conversation. Fischl tries to look up as well, while holding her head in the same position, until Noelle finally lets out an accomplished sound. “A flower,” Noelle says, pulling away. And, indeed, she holds a peony in her hands. 

Fischl looks at the vibrant flower, blooming in the young girl’s hands, and her heart flutters. She picks it gingerly, as though it would fall apart in her grasp within seconds. “If you were a man, I would be charmed by you already,” she gushes, cheeks burning red. 

Noelle ducks her head shyly. “I’ve barely done anything.” 

Then, she feels two hands clasp around hers, pulling her forward. She finds herself staring into eyes which are even greener than the grass that surrounds them, glowing with a heavenly glow. While no less imaginative, Fischl has been glowing since her seventeenth birthday, and they are now only a year apart in age. Her own heart is gleaming with joy so she crunches out a smile until Fischl suggests, “I have been thinking, would you do me a favour as my most trusted knight?” 

“Without a doubt,” Noelle agrees, nodding her head. “Anything for my princess.” 

Fischl leans backwards to pull out a novel from her bag. The latter recognises it immediately—it’s the novel they were assigned for reading, from school. It’s called ‘Heart of Clear Springs’ , a tragical romance between a mystical fairy and a hopeful boy. She stares at the book, and then at Fischl who’s trembling with joy; although, it’s quite typical that she gets this way when she enjoys a novel. “I was wondering if we could recreate a scene from this book. The writing is most scrumptious and it reminds me of something that happened right here! See, the tree and the stream—the setting is perfect.”

“Oh…” Noelle answers, voice trailing off. She watches silently as Fischl flips through the pages of the book, searching for a scene she’d bookmarked with a folded page corner. She can’t remember much from it, except the ending which brought tears to her eyes. Then, Fischl opens the book to its last few pages, and holds it out for Noelle to read. She skims over the words, reading them briefly to recall until her mind stops at something in particular… a kiss . Her eyes widen and heat rises to her cheeks at the scandalous idea. She peers up at Fischl before looking back down at the word. Surely, we’ll just skip over it? There’s no way she’d want to act this out! 

Fischl pats Noelle on the shoulder. “Are you alright?” 

“Very much,” Noelle sputters, not thinking through her words. The girls look at each other for a tense moment, before Fischl doubles over into laughter and the embarrassed Noelle does the same to save face. 

Fischl pulls Noelle onto her feet and thus, begins the capricious tale between the two young girls as they attempt to recreate the tragical romance between two lovers that were not fated to be. It’s easy when one has an imagination like Fischl, and an ability to follow like Noelle—each of them reading out the words as though it’s from the bottom of their hearts. They do so with amusement and enough skill for two girls that are fleeing from the clasps of adulthood with their fantasies, until they reach the very end of the book—the scene that has continued to linger at the back of Noelle’s mind.

She pauses awkwardly after her line, having played the role of the boy. Even though she is standing under the shade, she feels as though she may vanish into thin air from how hot her cheeks have gotten, breathing heavily after all the running around. Noelle looks up shyly as Fischl approaches her slowly, intertwining their fingers intimately. “Could you permit me to kiss you? Even though you are the man between us.”

“You would like to kiss… me ?” Noelle confirms sheepishly. 

“Well, yes,” Fischl agrees, squeezing their hands tighter. She looks away bashfully after that, her voice a little softer than before. Each of them can feel the dizziness of embarrassment yet again, as it is between them both whenever they touch this way. “It’s how the book ends, isn’t it?” 

“Maybe a kiss on the cheek would do,” Noelle suggests otherwise, shier of the other possibility. 

Fischl frowns, taking a step closer. “Why? Do you not want to kiss me?” 

“No! No !” the former interjects, pulling her hands away. She presses her hands against her heated cheeks, barely able to compose herself in a moment like this. The thought of it is so scandalous , much more with Fischl who is meant to be her best friend. Then, she glances at Fischl’s face as it morphs into a sadder one, her shoulders sagging with disappointment. “I’m terribly shy, but I would love to kiss you,” Noelle squeaks, till her voice hardly makes a sound. 

“Then, consider it as practice… for our future husbands,” Fischl smiles, perhaps trying to offer comfort. For some reason, the thought of husbands only seems to stir more turmoil within the knightly Noelle, who can’t see herself in a marriage to begin with. Though, she must acknowledge, with much embarrassment, that she is a hopeless romantic and would dream to be in a romantical marriage with a charming man, living in a place with painted landscapes like Springvale. In the middle of her furious thoughts, Noelle looks up to give an answer, only to find that she can’t talk at all. 

Then, slowly, she begins to realise something soft pressed against her lips. Noelle feels eyelashes brushing against her chin, and Fischl’s face against hers. She feels a shiver run against her spine, and then something shifts in her chest. In the background, two butterflies flutter by and a gust of the summer wind blows along, sending a pile of fallen leaves and flowers tumbling. Despite the roaring in her chest, Noelle closes her eyes slowly and leans forward as well, allowing the beauty of the moment to grace her. 

A beat later, Fischl pulls away gently and lets out a breath. It had only been a press of their lips together and nothing more, but the most exhilarating thing for either of them. “You would make the most beautiful bride,” she praises, her eyes curving into crescents.

Noelle doesn’t answer the question. For lack of an apt reply, she smiles. 

ix. i will wait for you / shadows creep

Fischl lies her head against the table, waiting for the next teacher to enter the classroom. It’s been a long day until now, and she can only think about going home and plummeting against her soft bed. Even reading a good book to spend the afternoon would be nice, but it’s approaching autumn and the cold is seconds away from lulling Fischl into an unwakeable slumber. Noelle has been determinedly working on a worksheet beside her, so apart from her pencil scratching into the table, Fischl can hear the boys causing a ruckus on the other side of the classroom. 

Soon enough, she hears footsteps enter the room and though she should be relieved that there is finally a teacher to simply begin the lesson and get it over with, Fischl doesn’t lift her head yet. Noelle taps her on the elbow, trying to wake her and it only takes that much for the latter to lift her head obediently. She sits up, and Noelle whispers, “Ms Jean is holding roses in her hands.” 

Fischl furrows her eyebrows and turns her head groggily to the front of the classroom, where she sees her maths teacher laying a bouquet of flowers on the desk, and then a paper bag. Her eyes widen in surprise, and she snaps her head towards Noelle with excitement. “Perhaps we won’t have to do maths today? This looks absolutely thrilling!” she squeals, wondering what they could be doing with roses. Even if they do practise arithmetic with flowers, Fischl can’t see how it’d be boring in any way. 

As the class starts gawking at the selection of roses, the class hears another set of footsteps walking quickly against the ground. Fischl leans forward to glance towards the entrance of the classroom, where she sees Ms Lisa sashaying inside while balancing several stacks of plant-pots in her arms, as well as a bag of dirt which has to be a few kilograms at minimum. Ms Jean turns her head over her shoulder, and upon noticing Ms Lisa, scampers forward to help her—although, Ms Lisa insists that there’s no need for the help. She observes as her maths teacher takes a step back to make way and rubs the back of her neck awkwardly, the lightest shade of pink blowing over her cheeks. 

“Are they very close?” Noelle asks softly, leaning into Fischl. She, however, hasn’t been paying much attention to anything else, except the quiet interactions between her two teachers. Despite having asked for help initially, Ms Jean insists on taking most of the workload upon herself, but Ms Lisa continues to help her wordlessly, calming her worries. When their hands brush, they both look at each other before looking quickly away. Sometimes, they accidentally speak up at the same time which panics them both. “Fischl?” she beckons again.

Fischl turns her head, snapping out of her daze. “They must be,” she speculates, starting to scratch a drawing onto the wooden table with a small smile on her face. Then, glancing up at the roses laid out on the table, she notices Ms Lisa staring at a particular bouquet. “I have seen them together on some occasions, but they seem like perfect friends right now.”

“I agree,” Noelle nods. Ms Lisa waves at the class before leaving, fidgeting with the edges of her dress as she excuses herself from the classroom. At the front, by the chalkboard, Ms Jean inhales deeply to compose herself (for reasons Fischl can’t understand) and starts to scribble something on the board. “It would be lovely if we could remain friends, even when we are at their age?”

“They aren’t very old, are they?” Fischl clarifies, scrutinising her teacher to scry a potential age. 

“I doubt so, but still.” 

Then, Ms Jean returns the chalk to its rightful place on the teacher’s desk and picks up a plant. She holds it up to the class, and right behind her, the words sprawl across the board, ‘Learning how to garden.’ It’s typically a feminine hobby, which makes Fischl wonder why the school would teach it to the entire batch of girls and boys, but she’s too excited by the idea to question it. She hears some of the boys groan, other than Bennett who looks absolutely ecstatic at the concept. “Alright class, I will be assigning you all a project. Everybody will have to plant their own roses, and keep it with themselves until they grow.” 

“But don’t roses take years to grow?” one of the boys asks, raising his hand high. “My mother told me,” he adds intellectually, to which Ms Jean holds up her finger and nods. 

“Indeed, that’s correct. The goal of the project is not to finish it, but to teach you all how to nurture a living thing, and pay close attention to detail. While it’s not arithmetic, some of the skills you will develop will be useful to becoming a good mathematician. All the teachers have agreed upon it,” Ms Jean elaborates, holding up the bouquet of roses. It’s hardly a bouquet, really, only a dozen roses which are bundled together with a piece of string—but it’s more elegant to say it that way. 

“Ms Jean, are you good friends with Ms Lisa?” someone else pokes, and it’s another boy. As with any other speculative question, the girls start to whisper amongst themselves. Barbara isn’t the one that starts gossiping, and instead lowers her head out of respect for her older sister. She’s only this meek in front of her sister, or her parents, trying to maintain the ‘good girl’ facade for them. Fischl notices this and makes a sour expression from the back of the class. Ms Jean scoffs when she hears the question and lowers the flowers in her hand to fix her collar (even though it was fine before). 

“Irrelevant questions are not welcome in this classroom,” she frowns, albeit with a small smile that emerges on her lips when she turns her head away. “Shall we begin the lesson then?” 

───────

By the end of the lesson, Fischl has successfully planted her rose seeds into her plant pot. She has given it ample amounts of water, and even read out a verse from her favourite poem, giving it the same tender love and care that Ms Jean said plants would need. Noelle looks satisfied with her own planting as well, but she has been turning her pot around in her hands to search for anything that may be wrong—worrying too much, as per usual. While packing up, she notices Ms Jean hurry out of the classroom with the roses in her hand, leaving behind the remaining bag of dirt in the classroom.

Fischl makes a quizzical expression as she notices her teacher run out with haste, wondering if she intended to leave it there or missed it. Still, she thinks about visiting Ms Jean in the staff’s room around the back of the school so she can ask a few questions about the homework as well. “Could we find Ms Jean? It will only take a few minutes, and I think it best to return to bag of dirt before one of the cleaners discard of it and waste the perfectly good soil.”  

“Oh,” Noelle makes a sound, noticing the sack still on the ground. “Of course,” she adds belatedly. 

Once the rest of the students make their way out of the classroom, the two girls fetch the sack of soil and start lugging it along with them. Although it’s a little heavy, with enough effort, they manage to drag it around to the back of the school, where there’s a door that leads into the staff room. The curtains which are usually drawn are open today, which piques Fischl’s curiosity. “How do we know that she’s inside?” Noelle asks, with perfect timing. 

“We could check,” Fischl says, dropping her end of the bag. Noelle doesn’t keep up with her words in time and is left standing with the bag by the time her friend scurries off towards the window. She drops it on the ground with a huff and follows, a little while later. In the meanwhile, Fischl has started to peek into the staff’s room, where she sees something so unforeseen that her words simply fail her in the moment. 

Just beyond her, on the other side of the window, she sees Ms Jean flushed to the tips of her ears, holding the bouquet of flowers by her side. She stands back-facing the window, facing Ms Lisa who’s watching with a quizzical look on her face. Often wearing a welcoming smile, it’s difficult to think she could make any expression apart from it. Then, Ms Jean holds up the bundle of flowers slowly and Fischl finds the urge to press her ear against the window. I meant to give this to you , she hears, muffled against the window. Not in front of the students , she hears the maths teacher correct herself afterwards. Fischl turns her head towards the scene again, fingers curled around the window sill. 

Ms Lisa presses a hand to her mouth, the other one accepting the flowers from Ms Jean. When the moment passes, she lowers her hand and steps forward, tucking a strand of hair behind Ms Jean’s ear. Her own face has earned the colour of roses, and there’s a shine in her eyes that’s uncanny to anything Fischl has ever known—that rare, magical emotion that she has described about love. Something awakens within her at the realisation and all of a sudden, Ms Lisa steps forward and wraps her arms around Ms Jean’s shoulders, pulling her into a warm kiss. Behind her, Fischl hears a squeal to which she whips her head and sees Noelle staring back at her, looking absolutely scandalised with eyes wide as saucers. 

“They’re—” Noelle almost says out loud, but Fischl feels a strange feeling in her stomach. In her half-crouched position, she looks back into the staff’s room and sees the two teachers pull away from each other, Ms Lisa now staring pointedly in the direction of the window. Quickly, Fischl grabs Noelle by the wrist and pulls her down to squat against the ground. With luck, they manage to hide before they’re spotted but seconds later, they hear the curtains being yanked together. “They are—” Noelle gasps.

Fischl sits with her back pressed against the wall, absolutely wordless. She feels a twist in her stomach—a good kind, (well, she knows it’s not bad )—and her chest can hardly squeeze out a breath. She stares at the vast fields in front of her, her mind simply blanking and leaving her void of any thought. 

Fischl can hear Noelle talking beside her, but the scene continues to repeat in her mind and her heart continues to quicken, as it would with watching any regular romance. Slowly, she turns her head towards Noelle and sees her breathing heavily as well. The sides of her face are gleaming with the beads of cold sweat trickling down her skin. Even in this moment of panic, Noelle has never looked brighter, and Fischl has never seen a girl as riveting as her. She looks back at the ground and presses her mud-caked fingers against her face. Oh. 

“Do you think they were practising for their husbands?”

Fischl turns her head mechanically towards Noelle, who is looking right at her. She can only press her lips together and muster a tight-lipped smile.

x. and want grows stronger/ deeper than the truth

It takes a month for Fischl to come to terms with what she’d seen in the empty staff room—though, it wasn’t much of what happened inside it, but what happened outside . She couldn’t understand why it felt so normal to her, when love between two women was something she’d never heard about before. She has not read it in books, nor heard about it from her parents. Whenever they preach about it in church, they talk of it being such a heinous sin that Fischl couldn’t have spared a thought of it before. 

Then, she thinks about her kiss with Noelle. It has been a few months since then, but Fischl could never forget the feeling that she’d gotten then. She didn’t mean to kiss Noelle—it was only practice. But there was a small, fluttering feeling in her chest that gravitated towards her like a moth to a flame and she thought it to be disastrous; if she ever found out its true nature. Fischl couldn’t understand why she did not resent the feeling, so she took it upon herself to ask her mother, one evening while she was drinking tea by the warm fire.  

“Excuse me?” her mother exclaims in a repulsed voice, and her tea cup clatters loudly against the plate. The warm tea sloshes around in her cup harshly like a tide as she snaps her head towards her daughter, unable to believe she could ask such a scandalous question. “My word!” 

Fischl looks her mother in the eye. “Why can’t two women love each other? It’s a simple question,” she says out-loud, although she knows it isn’t so simple in reality. She sees her mother squirm around in her seat like she’d been assaulted with a hoard of maggots, looking left and right for fear that somebody might overhear their conversation. Fischl, in the middle of it all, wonders why it’s really so bad—and how she’d begun to be wary of the heart-throbbing feeling that she thought to be normal around her friend. 

“It’s simply wrong ,” Fischl’s mother scolds. “God created a man and a woman at the beginning of the world, and it’s only with a man and a woman that you can create new life. It can be no other way,” she rambles, shaking her head vigorously, still unable to stomach the question. Fischl had never thought of her mother to be so conservative, especially when she’s so forthcoming when it comes to her education, and learning to live as a woman rather than a wife—but sitting there, with her heart sinking to her stomach, she starts to think the world she lives in may still be more thorns than roses. 

“I don’t understand why it’s so… wrong,” Fischl argues back, scratching her head. Her mother’s head snaps towards her and her eyes are even wider now. Her cheeks are flushed with the devil’s red and she looks as though she may sentence Fischl to the guillotine any second now. She starts mumbling a prayer under her breath, like her daughter has been possessed and lets out a huff. 

“I will not entertain any more of your questions,” she states firmly. “Off to your room this instant.” 

Fischl looks to her mother with pleading eyes, only to be denied any answer at all. She stands up, tears weighing against her eyelids as she feels the terrible urge to scream her emotions out into a pillow. She runs out of the room, holding her dress down as she feels the most horrible guilt in the world. It rips her apart from the inside, and there is nothing to save her from this mayhem. As she is scampering upstairs with tear-filled eyes, Fischl sees Noelle standing on the other side of the corridor, a candle in her hand. Embers fly in the air, along with the sparks of an invisible flame as they lock eyes across empty space. 

Before Noelle can call out to her, she turns her head and flees, door slamming behind her. Fischl runs to her bed and curls into a ball, pulling the sheets towards her. Within the span of a moment and less, she feels hot and cold at the same time and no place in the world is big enough for her presence. She presses her head against her chest and her legs wherever they fit but Fischl feels as though she could melt into her bed and simply stay that way forever. 

Why can’t two women love each other? she asks the moon, praying it would have an answer. She waits for its colour to dim, to scold her for pondering on such forbidden topics, but it continues to smile upon her the same way it does with the rest of the normal world. 

───────

Fischl’s mother doesn’t speak of the earlier night’s conversation the next morning. She doesn’t meet her daughter’s eyes as they interact, and her skin has turned a sickly pale. Dark circles hang beneath her eyes and she does not ask Fischl even once about her cheeks which look dull, and the tear stains on her nightgown. With winter soon approaching and the school year almost coming to an end to prepare for the snowstorm to come, Fischl makes up her mind regarding the matter. 

She leaves before Noelle, leaving a partial letter on the breakfast table for her to find. She sits at a separate table—towards the front, with Sucrose, who doesn’t deny her presence. During recess, instead of playing amongst the falling leaves, she hides with Bennett and Razor, who have grown fond of Noelle during the many times they’ve met and heard about her through Fischl. She was certain she would not be able to make it through the entire hour without blurting the reason behind it, but she manages to, nonetheless. During literature, Fischl eyes Ms Lisa with a particular look, unable to pay any attention to the text. Ms Lisa has noticed it too, but does not call her out for it. 

After last period, Fischl requests to have a chat with Ms Jean—who, often, eagerly accepts her requests to chat, be it to help with schoolwork or to talk about her difficulties with school. Even upon noticing the students file out of the classroom, Fischl notices Noelle lingering near the doorway—staring at her, waiting for her to join. She must’ve been confused since the earlier night and knowing Noelle, the poor girl would only worry herself till her silver hair turns whiter. Fischl feels an ache in her chest at the thought but forces herself to look away. “Could we speak outside, maybe?” she questions. 

Ms Jean obliges and walks with her to someplace they can talk more comfortably. As they brush past Noelle on their way out, Ms Jean waves politely in greeting but Fischl keeps her gaze on the ground, giving her no opportunity to pull her aside. They walk to the small pond outside, a quiet corner of the campus where there should be no students to overhear them. Fischl inched in its direction deliberately, knowing her teacher would refuse to talk about such a matter around anybody else. “I have a few questions, Ms Jean. I would like you to answer them truthfully,” she begins, facing her teacher. 

“I will do my best,” Ms Jean responds brightly, a polite smile on her face. She seems especially happier today, her teeth showing between her lips when they rarely do. There is a rose woven in her hair, between a braid that ties around the side of her head. 

Fischl looks down, tightening her grip on her bag. She clasps her hands behind her back and starts kicking around the grass, not knowing how to approach the question. All of a sudden, she remembers the pain from the night prior—that ache in her chest and in her bones, and the emptiness of knowing that those traitorous feelings she’d been harbouring have no place in the normal world. 

Standing here, Fischl has no inkling of what she’s seeking. Then, she wonders if Ms Jean had ever suffered the same way. “A month ago… in the staff room,” she begins, and notices the glow in her teacher’s smile fade. “I saw you and Ms Lisa,” Fischl continues, after a beat. She waits for a reaction. 

Ms Jean tries to hold up her smile, but the corners have already started to fall. Her eyes dart elsewhere and she starts to fidget uncomfortably. She lifts her hand mid-air, hovers it there and after an uncomfortable moment, she laughs out loud. “She and I are very close friends. We spend much of our free time together,” she explains, but there’s an undeniably quiver in her voice. Her mouth smiles, but her eyes are dull with fear, and Fischl starts to understand, for a moment, she may not be alone. 

“But she kissed you,” she states plainly. “And neither of you are… married.” 

Ms Jean remains silent. She purses her lips together and by this point, there are no remnants of a smile left on her face. She starts to fidget with the rose in her hair, like trying to pry it out of its place. A beat passes and an awkward tension continues to hang between them, filled with words they cannot say. Fischl gulps and she starts to think she’d been too disrespectful—but she knows, deep down, if she were to walk away then there would be no adult in the world who would help her understand. 

“Is it normal?” Fischl asks, but the tension does not break yet. 

Ms Jean looks at her, and in Fischl’s eyes, she sees a part of herself which she’d long forgotten. Her lips part and she feels something in her chest—the little girl she once was, calling out to her from within. That little girl had to live in a world that was far worse than it is now, ten years later, because marriage was the only happy ending for a woman. No matter how long it has been since that time, it would be difficult for Jean to ever forget grappling onto dear life, trying to save herself from the guilt she did not deserve. 

Her expression softens and she takes a step forward. Alas, there is another smile on her face now—sadness or, in better words, pity. “I cannot say it is normal, Fischl,” Ms Jean starts, lowering her head. Her own lips quiver as she has to utter the words, but she convinces herself to brave through it. A conversation like this, to save a young girl from the turmoil she had to face alone, may only happen to her once. “But this world is not black-and-white. We live in an orthodox society, where we are taught that a woman’s only happiness is only from a man. It is not like that.” 

Fischl lowers her head, her hair falling over her face. “...Are you happy?” 

“Ah,” Ms Jean gasps, averting her gaze once more. Fischl raises her head again to observe her expression, and she sees the same pained smile. Her chest clenches and she muffles a small sound, slowly feeling as though there is no oxygen left for her kind. For an answer that takes so long to give, she starts to worry that it could only be the most terrible thing. “I am quite content with my life as it is. And if you are asking about me and Lisa, then yes, I am the happiest woman in the world, especially when I am with her.” 

Then, she sees Ms Jean’s smile return to her again—that proper, shimmering one like the water of the clear, blue lake beside them. Fischl steals a peek towards it and notices their distorted reflections in the water, swimming against the surface as a flurry of colours. She feels the corners of her own lips being slowly pulled into a smile. She can’t help it. To have heard such a thing from her teacher, about her lover, transcends anything she has heard of in books. 

“Quite frankly, Lisa and I are… married in our own way,” Ms Jean continues, starting to walk forward. She picks up a dry leaf from the ground and starts to twiddle it between her fingers. “I cannot give you much advice and tell you to be brave when I am cowardly myself. Society will tell you many things are right, and many that are wrong, but never why and it is, undeniably, brutal. It would rather kill the spirit of a little girl than allow her to live a little… differently. But your happiness is your own, Fischl. Never forget that,” she finishes, a note of finality to her tone. 

And, all of a sudden—like magic—things start to feel right again. Fischl feels something tug at her heartstrings as she watches the expressions on Ms Jean’s face, and inhales the weight of her words. She feels them divulge through her flesh and sink through her bones, echoing through her body like they are the only true words she has ever heard. Fischl meets her teacher’s eyes and for a riveting moment, the world is not the same dull place it was before. Her mind starts to churn the same way it used to and then she remembers the gentle pressure of a kiss against her lips. Fischl turns on her heel, asking, “What if—” 

Her words stop there. She holds her hand in the middle of the air, and her half-sentence hangs, incomplete, as she struggles to find the words to do so. Fischl rarely finds herself at a loss for words, in such a state that she cannot simply muster something and throw it out of her mouth. It becomes a matter of too many what-ifs, too many possibilities and situations that are unbecoming of her. As a gust of wind blows, reminding Fischl of summer’s warmth and her tumultuous feelings, she sees Noelle’s face in her head. Noelle. Noelle. Noelle. “What if… I speak of it with another soul? These feelings.” 

“With?” Ms Jean raises an eyebrow, starting to realise the deeper issue. 

“Would she definitely return my feelings?” 

This is where Jean can’t give the answer she would like. Her cheeks have started to grow sore from her attempt at holding a smile, but losing face now, seems more tempting than ever. Even though she would like to promise Fischl, as her teacher, that all will be well—she could not bear to promise the hopeful girl a future of rosy paths when it’s only bombarded with thorns. “Nobody can promise that, Fischl. I would truly love to promise you a love so great and pure, but it’s a matter of fate. And fate is unpredictable.” 

“What of our friendship then—” Fischl asks, trying again, to search for the answer she wants. 

Ms Jean returns her with a tight-lipped smile. She shakes her head once and she says, “Perhaps there are some girls who would be willing to understand. They may forgive you for your feelings but most are not so lovely,” she begins. She notices Fischl’s shoulders sag and her lips slowly curve into a scowl. Though, praying to the fates for good luck and mercy on the young girl, she says, “I would, however, urge you to not lose hope so soon. You are going too far… fearing rejection already.” 

“That is to say, if I meant to confess to a girl at all ,” Fischl chuckles awkwardly, trying to save face. Her teacher responds with a knowing look and only shrugs her shoulders, paying no mind to her facade. Then, Fischl sees her reflection in the clear water again, hidden behind grass and puny flowers. Looking in her eyes, she feels a dreadful epiphany dawn on her. Oh, Noelle. 

xi. i can’t help but love you / even though i try not to

On Noelle’s nineteenth birthday, over a year since her arrival, the family receives a letter from the city for the first time since the young woman’s arrival. She has been a woman for a while—as eighteen and adulthood made it, but during her time with Fischl, she had forgotten about the woes of being an adult. Even after a full winter passing and the coming of spring, Fischl has not considered professing her love to Noelle. She had always thought of confessions to be a man’s duty to satisfy his lady but with her situation—it is simply better to forget the feelings exist at all. 

It does not go into saying that hiding them is a piece of cake. Every now and then, Fischl battles the urge to blurt them out and anticipate a reaction; but the possibility of losing her dearest friend troubles her so much that she loses sleep at the thought of it. 

Instead, she has convinced herself that Noelle’s presence is sufficient. 

But it’s all until this night, when Noelle is called into the living room to discuss the letter she’d been sent from her parents, that Fischl sees her friend standing at the doorway with a disheartened look on her face. She takes a step forward but before the words even leave her mouth, Fischl feels that same sinking feeling in her stomach that she sought to avoid. She sits up, looking confused, but she could already anticipate the news. “My father wants me back home… in the city,” Noelle admits dimly. 

Fischl chokes on her words as Noelle’s ones reach her with such excruciating force. She feels that hoarse, guttural pain sink through her skin yet again, the same one she’d been recovering from all these months—the desire to scream yet only being able to utter a small, unheard sound. Fischl looks down to the floor and everything merges into an indistinguishable medley of colours. Her hands start trembling and she looks up at Noelle, who’s still standing at the door—looking down at the letter in her hand. Fischl hears ringing in her ears and presses her hands against her ears, too many thoughts trying to cram inside her little head at once. You shouldn’t have wasted so much time. You’ll never get to tell her. You’ll never see her anymore —

Noelle hurries forward but Fischl feels the deep urge to push her away, to separate herself from the rest of the world so that nobody would hurt her worse than the one in her body. Because it’s Noelle, she doesn’t feel terrible when a pair of hands holds hers, and Fischl feels warmth engulf her like no other. Her heart doesn’t race like it used to back then, when she was first in love, but the feeling that replaces it is a learned feeling—something she could never get from anybody else. 

Fischl looks up when she hears sniffling and sees Noelle with the same red, teary-eyed face like her own, but still trying to comfort her friend. In a desperate attempt, Fischl reaches both her arms forward, with an invitation for a hug and Noelle, like every other time, doesn’t hesitate to oblige. Their chests press against each other and their hearts beat in unison, each suffering from the same excruciating pain. “Please save your tears, my princess. It’s not fit for a princess to cry,” Noelle pleads.

“I cannot bear to lose you,” Fischl sobs, still seventeen and having the liberty to feel before adulthood dawns on her. She buries her face in her beloved’s neck—whether or not her love is reciprocated—she would think of Noelle as her one true love, because the situation is painful enough without denial. The thought becomes so much more painful with the knowledge that Fischl would lose that beautiful feeling she’d been growing in her chest. Her rose from school beside them, watching as the girls drown each other in their ocean of tears, still in its adolescent stages. Fischl sees it when she looks up and the question spills out on its own, “Why do you have to go?” 

She feels Noelle press against her closer, lowering her head against Fischl’s shoulder. “My father believes I have reached an age fit for marriage. He would like me to return to the city, so he may find men who would like to court me,” she babbles, sounding so bitter about those words. Fischl stares blankly at the wall across the room, crying but feeling nothing at all. This should be Noelle’s dream—to experience a romance like no other, and be wedded to a rich, handsome man who will love her passionately. There should be no reason for her to deny it. “I… I am not ready for it yet. I would not like to leave you,” Noelle confesses, trying to hold Fischl closer.

Then, she understands the real reason why Noelle does not want to leave. Fischl forces them apart, and wipes the remnants of tears away from her eyes. In spite of the deep hatred for what she is about to do, she shoves aside the unnecessary, burdensome feelings to do what she must. After all, Noelle has always been selfless. “You must never worry about me, Noelle,” Fischl frowns, holding her by both shoulders. “We have talked, and talked, and talked for hours about our dreams and our truest wishes, and the time has come for yours to be fulfilled. You are finally to be wed to somebody who is deserving of your pure, kind heart and when you find him, he will make you the happiest lady in the world.” 

Noelle doesn’t reply. She looks back at Fischl, on her knees. It’s as though her princess is bestowing a royal decree, or absolving her from a battle so that she can find her happiness, at last. And as her loyal knight, she must not object to an order. 

“You need not worry about me—” Fischl continues, cupping Noelle’s cheek with her hand. “We will remain as bestest friends, and we will remain that way, forevermore . But that is all we will ever be, and I cannot give you the happiness that a husband will. It will be a perfectly royal occasion when you find a man fit for your hand, and I will be there, watching you in a dress as white as snow. You would make the most beautiful bride, ” she rambles and somewhere along the way, it starts to feel as though she’s speaking to herself. But no amount of consolation would ever allow Fischl to make peace with the fact that she and Noelle can never be . 

She imagines Noelle in a white dress, walking down the aisle with a bouquet of purple roses in her hand, and the most charming smile on her face. Fischl winces at the daydream and retracts her hand, realising she has permitted her mind to dwell too far, to dangerous territories she must not roam. Noelle stands up, towering over her princess. She stands at attention, shoulders stiff, and face stained with dry tears. “I will write to you everyday, and I will tell you every detail about the courting so it will be like you are there with me. And I will tell you about my rose—” 

“And, someday, when we are both wedded and content with our marriages, we may even meet and exchange the roses we have grown,” Fischl dreams. Noelle nods her head quickly, trying to muster a smile but the best she can do is a tight-lipped one, in an attempt to stop another tide of tears. Their conversation halts for only a moment but the tension unravels within that one moment, seemingly breaking before only getting worse a second later. “Do you vow to write to me, always? So we may always be close in heart, if never distance?” 

“I do,” Noelle replies confidently. Fischl rises to her feet and takes Noelle’s hands in her own, resting their foreheads together for an intimate moment. While they cannot do anything more, or do anything less to escape this inevitable fate, they imbue the purest love within each other and share breaths for a moment which would never be long enough. Thus, with this wordless silence and with prayers to the world to permit them both the ‘forever’s they desire, the night passes. 

───────

A week later, and too soon, a carriage arrives from the city. The man with silvery hair like Noelle’s emerges from it, wearing a leather coat and ruby ornaments on his shirt. He wears the same jolly grin as when he entrusted his daughter to his friend’s care, but Fischl feels no better than she did last time. She spent the entire morning pondering if she should fall to her knees and beg the adults to let Noelle stay for good, so that she won’t have to feign selflessness and let her go. Knowing her antics, her mother warned her not to pull a stunt she would regret—to which, Fischl simply wondered if there was anything in the world she would not do for Noelle. 

Noelle steps out of the door to meet her father, holding the luggage with her things, and the older man pulls his daughter into an affectionate embrace. He ruffles her hair playfully, and he doesn’t seem like the strict, unforthcoming fathers in the society. Fischl stands in between her parents, just as Noelle stands beside her father—both of them standing so stiffly, like they are strangers. 

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye to your friend?” Noelle’s father asks her, patting her on the shoulder. They lock eyes at that moment, and they recall the events from a week before and everything that happened afterwards. There was not a thing that they didn’t do with each other—they read books and sang songs, played princesses with Oz and danced. “Or did they not get along?” he frowns.

“Nothing like that. They have had plenty of time to say their goodbyes over the week, is all,” Fischl’s mother answers on her behalf, sounding like she knows it all. The adults continue to engage in a brief conversation but neither of the girls pay attention, only looking right at each other and sometimes, away, with many tumultuous thoughts about what would happen when they have to step away. Then, when they least expect it, Noelle’s father takes a step backward with a final laugh and urges Noelle to follow. 

“Best we start heading off now. Many thanks for taking good care of my girl,” he grins, waving enthusiastically as he leads his daughter down the porch. Fischl’s eyes widen briefly as she watches her friend turn away, until she’s facing her back. She raises a hand in a meek wave, and over the ringing in her ears, she hears the muffled voices of her parents. Fischl watches as Noelle is led down the road, her silhouette getting smaller and smaller as she walks away. Slowly, the front door is closed in front of her and she starts to feel vulnerable—like she’s losing control. 

Then, her mother grips her shoulder and the door shuts close. “Hurry along, Fischl. You cannot stand there all day.” 

With that, Fischl snaps out of her daze. Shrugging her mother’s hand off her shoulder, she opens the door and braves the world with the courage she could not build before. She hears her parents’ voices calling out to her from behind but she pays no heed to them. Fischl runs out onto the dirt road, to the carriage which Noelle is climbing. “ Noelle! ” she yells at the top of her lungs, the wind carrying her voice far and far away. The latter turns her head and for a cinematic moment, the wind blows with leaves and drifting flowers, holding them in time. 

Noelle steps away from the carriage and suddenly, a pair of arms wrap around her tightly and the warmth of another body crashes into her. If they were in a movie, the most melodious song would be playing in their background as they hold each other in a final embrace. “Please be well,” Fischl mumbles into her neck, heart throbbing throughout her body. Holding Noelle in her arms, however, she finds that this farewell isn’t as sad as it could’ve been. 

“I will be,” Noelle mumbles back, in a quiet voice but with utmost conviction. 

Thus, is their unsaid goodbye.