Chapter Text
A Nefarious Scheme
Twenty-nine years after the Hero Himmel’s passing
in the magical town of Äußerst in the Northern Lands
“So how’s Frieren doing…?” Stark asks anxiously as he hovers just outside of Fern’s and Frieren’s bedroom door.
“She hasn’t woken up yet,” Fern murmurs while carefully replacing the towel on Frieren’s forehead. “But at least her fever’s come down a fair bit.”
“Thank goodness,” Stark moans fervently before sagging against the doorway in relief.
“You didn’t have to be so worried,” Fern berates him before reseating herself and gently taking one of the sleeping elf’s hands. “Frieren-sama’s not that fragile.”
“I wasn’t actually worried about Frieren,” Stark mutters. “I was worried about me.”
“Ah,” Fern nods with belated understanding. “You were afraid that I’d hold Frieren-sama’s current condition against you.”
“Well, the thing that led to her current condition was my idea after all…” Stark mumbles as he twiddles his thumbs.
And to think that it had been such a good idea too—one that he’d been keen to share with Fern for weeks.
He’d only gotten the chance to finally mention it, however, after the conclusion of a grueling training session that had somehow evolved into a group fitness exercise involving the self-appointed members of Fern’s newest party.
“So why are you all participating in the exercise regimen that I devised for Fern again…?” Stark had asked in mild perplexity as he’d glanced at the four other women who were sprawled in various postures on the ground.
At Stark’s question, four pairs of eyes had promptly swiveled away to regard distant features of the terrain.
“As a First-Class Mage who’ll be deployed to subjugate the demons of the Northern Plateau, I need to maintain a perpetual state of battle readiness, Stark-san,” the voluptuous mage named Methode had eventually supplied while continuing to evade Stark’s gaze. “And that means cultivating a prodigious amount of stamina and vigor.”
“In my case and Lawine’s, we’re aiming to pass the next First-Class Mage Exam,” Kanne had hummed.
“Which means that what Methode just said applies to me and Kanne too,” Lawine had elaborated.
“I’m just here as a participant-observer from the Continental Magic Association, of course,” the diminutive mage named Sense had coughed. “Given how Serie-sama has expressed her rank dissatisfaction over the absence of solidarity among the senior First-Class Mages, I wanted to explore group fitness activities as a potential teambuilding exercise.”
“Right,” Stark had nodded crisply.
He hadn’t bought any of their stories, of course.
After all, he’d been with Frieren long enough to know that an exceptionally skilled mage could have the torpor of a sloth and STILL be stupefyingly and terrifyingly battle ready.
He’d also been with Fern long enough to recognize when stamina and vigor were clearly being cultivated for martial arts of the bedroom variety.
Given the fervor with which these women had been devoting themselves to his training regimen though, Stark did NOT want to imagine what sorts of martial arts they had in mind for the boudoir.
This settles it, Stark had sighed in the privacy of his mind. The most powerful mages in the world really are freaks in one way or another!
“Stark-sama,” Fern had addressed him after setting her flask down, “you never did get around to telling me what your idea was for helping me overcome the impasse in my relations with Frieren-sama.”
At Fern’s reminder, four pairs of eyes had promptly swiveled to converge with frightening intensity on Stark.
“Oh,” Stark had squeaked, suddenly daunted by the unprecedented attention. “It’s, erm, too embarrassing for me to explain out loud, so could I borrow your grimoire, Fern…?”
After the purple-haired mage had given him the tome, Stark had flipped to the page that had sparked his inspiration and then raised the illustration for all to see.
“What you’re showing us is THE problem, Stark, not the solution,” Lawine had frowned. “Fern can’t sustain a spell like that if she can’t even control her mana—”
“I never said that Fern had to be the one to cast the spell,” Stark had interrupted mildly.
At this thoroughly unexpected proposal, a hush had descended upon the entire group.
“Explain,” Methode had instructed as she’d narrowed her eyes at Stark.
“Frieren’s still…inexperienced right…?” Stark had supplied slowly. “I figure that she’s making the kinds of demands she’s making of Fern because she doesn’t realize how impossible they are to meet—at least in the, um, short term. But if she were to find out what it’s like herself…”
“That’s…That’s utterly brilliant,” Sense had gawped. “This whole time, we’ve focused our efforts on helping Fern meet Frieren’s demands. It’s never occurred to us to focus on making Frieren rescind her demands instead.”
“Heh,” Stark had preened, suddenly emboldened by the unprecedented praise. “It’s a strategy that’s based on the essences of the martial arts. In dealing with a stronger opponent, my master Eisen taught me to redirect the enemy’s strength and force against them. Fern might not be able to cast spells now while engaging in, erm, relations with Frieren…but Frieren does—and that’s something that Fern can use against her.”
“Wait. Wait. How do you know that Frieren-sama casts spells when we’re in the middle of things??” Fern had frowned.
“Because you always have a bruise or two under your collar when we sit down at breakfast—but I’ve never heard a thing in all the nights we’ve spent under the same roof,” Stark had drily replied.
“You’re—You’re such a pervert!” Fern had yelled while blushing furiously. “I can’t believe you were eavesdropping on us the whole time!”
“I wouldn’t even DREAM of eavesdropping on you!” Stark had yelled right back. “I mean, seriously, battling a horde of dragons would be far less lethal—”
“Well, I must say that this strategy of yours is exceedingly sensible, Stark-san,” Methode had intervened with a placating air. “The timing couldn’t be more impeccable either given that I’m currently contending with a stronger opponent myself.”
“Aren’t we all?” Sense had sighed then—before recomposing herself quickly and gracing Stark with a small smile. “At any rate, I agree with Methode. The Continental Magic Association could benefit from more cross-functional exchanges of knowledge like this between mages and warriors like yourself. I’ll draw up a proposal for Serie-sama’s consideration accordingly.”
“Oh, pshaw,” Stark had flushed while scuffing the toe of his boot against the grass. “It’s nothing, really…”
Apparently, it’s even less than nothing! Stark wails in the silence of his mind as his thoughts finally return to the present. My idea might have actually broken Frieren—which just means that Fern’s going to break ME!
“I already told you that you don’t have to worry, Stark-sama,” Fern reassures him calmly. “Like Methode-sama and Sense-sama, I think your idea was a brilliant one. If anything, the fact that Frieren-sama actually passed out at the culmination of our relations testifies to the success of your strategy. At the very least, she’s gained firsthand experience of how unreasonable her own demands can be.”
“So, um, do you think she’ll stop making those demands of you now…?” Stark asks cautiously, unwilling to believe that he’s being let off the hook so easily.
“I don’t know, to be honest,” Fern chuckles while shaking her head. “Because the thing is: Frieren-sama’s magic never actually failed. She maintained both her enlargement spell and her barrier magic until the very end. The spells only dissipated when she lost consciousness—and I doubt that’s ever going to happen again. But throughout that initial engagement, Frieren-sama was absolutely magnificent…in multiple senses of the word,” Fern concludes with an air of rapt adoration.
“Well, it sounds like you’re not going to mind how things turn out either way,” Stark observes.
“I’m her apprentice first and her lover second,” Fern smiles while tenderly stroking the sleeping elf’s cheek. “After seeing my master ascend to heights of magic I’ve never imagined yet again, I’m inspired to try even harder. And if all else fails, I can always use Frieren-sama’s pride against her,” Fern adds wickedly. “After all, she’s never going to admit just how much it cost her to last as long as she did...which means that she’s never going to refuse my requests for a repeat performance either.”
“That settles it,” Stark sighs. “You really can be downright terrifying at times.”
“I learned from the best,” Fern smirks. “And considering how things turned out, so did you, Stark-sama.”
Three weeks later
in the magical town of Äußerst in the Northern Lands
“Serie-sama, I’m here to pick you up—”
The moment the door swings open, the rest of Methode’s sentence vanishes as rapidly as a Stille in flight.
Because the one who’s greeted her at the door is none other than the Great Mage herself—and she’s dressed in an off-shoulder tunic that does absolutely nothing to conceal a shockingly stunning figure…and she’s also swept her bangs to the side and freed her hair from their usual ornaments.
“This is the first time that I’ve ever seen you lose your composure,” the elf drawls with one eyebrow lifted in amusement.
“And I suspect that it won’t be the last,” Methode admits candidly when she finally manages to tear her gaze away from the Great Mage’s arresting display. “I honestly didn’t expect you to dress for the occasion, Serie-sama…” she adds by way of explanation.
“Well, I didn’t expect you to bring flowers for it either,” the elf remarks as a corner of her lips quirks upwards. “Given that you’ve brought roses, snapdragons and carnations, it seems that your bouquet is just as forthright as you are.”
“I wouldn’t dream of wasting your time with pointless ambiguities—even if you do happen to have all the time in the world,” Methode asserts with uncharacteristic gravity.
“Then let’s not waste your time with trivial pleasantries either,” the Great Mage husks before turning around and leaving the door open for Methode. “There should be a jar somewhere in here for that forthright bouquet of yours.”
“Wait. Wait,” Methode blinks. “I thought I was taking you out to dinner…”
“You could, but there aren’t any establishments here that could remotely rival my French cuisine,” the elf shrugs.
“You—You cook??” Methode actually splutters as she follows the Great Mage into her quarters in a daze. “And you cooked French dishes for me??”
“I decorated for you too,” the elf declares distractedly while searching for a vase—and that’s when Methode finally notices the candle-lit table that’s been set for two on the balcony. “On second thought, calling these dishes ‘French’ might not be entirely accurate,” the Great Mage frowns before taking Methode’s flowers and arranging them in a jar with artful efficiency. “After all, I learned how to do them when your demon-hunting ancestors still called themselves the Gauls.”
At these thoroughly unexpected revelations, Methode finds herself at an uncharacteristic loss for words.
“You look surprised,” the Great Mage observes as she leans her hip against a table and crosses her arms.
“I’m not surprised. I’m shocked,” Methode corrects her mildly. “This entire time, I’ve been expecting you to merely tolerate my advances. It never occurred to me that you would do all…this,” she concludes with an expansive wave of her hand.
The elf tilts her head to the side. “I don’t do things by half. I was the one who gave you permission to pursue me…so it behooves me to play the part of the pursued.”
That’s UTTERLY disingenuous, Methode counters in the silence of her mind—before abruptly recalling the words that Stark-san had uttered weeks before: It’s one of the essences of the martial arts to redirect an opponent’s strength and force against them.
In that moment, Methode realizes that the Great Mage has effortlessly redeployed her own momentum against her by withholding the resistance that Methode had been expecting the entire time.
It was the amorous equivalent of heaving a battering ram against a fortified gate…only to find the gate being swung wide open right before the moment of impact.
I really HAVE bitten off more than I can chew, Methode concedes with good-natured grace. She threw me off balance the moment she opened her door…and I’ve failed to regain the initiative ever since.
“So why did you give me permission to pursue you…?” Methode asks with genuine curiosity as she follows the Great Mage out to her balcony.
She’s already anticipating the answer to be some variation on a theme of immortal ennui: I gave you permission because I haven’t got anything better to “do” than you.
“I gave you permission because you’re the first person in over a thousand years who’s regarded me as something else besides the Living Grimoire,” the elf shrugs while pouring herself a glass of wine.
The thoroughly unforeseen disclosure stops Methode dead in her proverbial tracks.
Because the Great Mage’s confession is far more destructive and disabling than the offensives that had preceded it—and Methode speculates that it’s because she never expected the elf to return her honesty in kind.
“You really don’t play fair, do you, Serie-sama?” Methode sighs.
Because she realizes, in that moment, that she would gladly devote the rest of her to life to this woman if it meant being able to alleviate just the tiniest fraction of the abyssal and unfathomable loneliness that she’s glimpsed.
“I only play fair when my victory is guaranteed,” the elf murmurs before taking a sip of her wine. Then she extends the glass towards Methode and asks: “Want a taste?”
Methode pauses for a moment—aware that the Great Mage’s question is yet another test.
She doesn’t want my commiseration, my consideration or my concern, she decides as she gazes into the elf’s hooded eyes. What intrigues her is my unfettered desire for her as a woman—and my utter indifference to her status and her skills.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Methode finally breathes—and that’s when she boldly snakes an arm around the smaller woman’s waist and covers her mouth with hers.
“Sweet…” Methode rasps when they finally draw apart.
“Of course it’s sweet,” the Great Mage husks. “It’s a Sauternes that’s been aged for a hundred years after all.”
“I wasn’t talking about the Sauternes,” Methode mutters while roundly suppressing the impulse to taste the wine on the elf’s lips again.
“In that case, you’d have enjoyed more of that sweetness if you’d given me a French kiss.”
“Serie-sama,” Methode intones solemnly (while privately cursing the chivalric ideals with which she’d been raised), “if I were to give you a French kiss now, we’d risk missing your French dinner altogether.”
“Touché,” the elf chuckles. “Well, since you’ve already brought it up, we might as well eat. Even I can’t resist my bœuf bourguignon…and I only make it every other decade or so.”
Grand-maman, Methode weeps in the silence of her mind, if I NEVER get another chance to have her as an hors d'oeuvre, I am SO blaming you. Although having said that…I suppose it’s fine to lose some battles in order to win a war, she shrugs philosophically—before draining the rest of her glass with a smile.
Image of Serie by artist Miryu.
DAS LANGE SPIEL OMAKE SERIES
MARUMARU NO MAHOU 13: Magic for Soothing Monsters
SENSE (trudges wearily into her office…before lighting up unconsciously at the sight of Übel sleeping on her couch): Oh…I wonder how long she’s been here on her own…
SENSE (takes a blanket and gently covers Übel with it—before finding herself abruptly yanked downwards): Übel! I—I thought you were asleep—!
ÜBEL (murmurs while wrapping her arms around Sense): I was asleep until you entered the room. You were gone for hours again today.
SENSE (frets anxiously over how to extricate herself from Übel’s hold—before abruptly releasing a small moan when Übel starts kneading her back purposefully): I—I was out attending an endurance training exercise…
ÜBEL (husks with her eyes closed): Ah. That explains why your muscles feel so tight...
SENSE (bites her lip to suppress another moan when Übel’s fingers hit a particularly tight knot): I—We—You shouldn’t be…doing this…
ÜBEL (chuckles while pressing her fingertips against Sense’s shoulder blades): I wouldn’t have to do this if you weren’t off doing some random fitness program. Why on earth would a First-Class Mage like you need to work on your endurance anyway??
SENSE (tries to fight off the drowsiness that’s been mounting for hours…but is unable to resist the lassitude induced by Übel’s strokes): I—I just thought I’d need it…to keep up with you…in case we, you know…in case we…if we…(Falls dead asleep before finishing her sentence.)
ÜBEL (blinks for a few moments in rank disbelief…before shaking her head with a small smile): Sense-san, how am I supposed to sleep now when you’ve left me hanging just like that?? (Shifts her position to spoon Sense…before burying her face in the smaller woman’s hair and murmuring.) I knew it. You really do feel much better against my skin than a blanket…
An hour later
in Sense's office at the Continental Magic AssociationMETHODE (knocks briefly on Sense’s door before entering): Sense-sa—
METHODE (stops dead in her tracks the moment she finds Sense and Übel asleep on the couch—and notes how Sense’s hair has wrapped itself protectively around them both): …
METHODE (retreats with a small smile before quietly locking Sense’s door): Well, that certainly would have counted as an instance of improper workplace relations. Thank goodness Sense-san never got around to barring such a trivial thing.