Outside the small, rustic railway station, a man was waiting for us.
He was exactly as I remembered: old, his skin weathered and creased by decades of sun, and a straw hat that had seen considerably better days. Beside him, waiting patiently, was a simple wooden cart, ready for the journey. And pulling said cart, with an air of deep and existential indifference, was a donkey.
The donkey looked at me.
And I, feeling a familiar chill run down my spine, looked back at the donkey.
(Oh no. No, no, no. It's him.)
The donkey, as though reading my thoughts and savouring my discomfort, snorted. Loudly. And with a clear and unmistakeable intent.
[Danger alert: hostile equine detected. History of prior physical conflict on record.]
(Yes, Eos. I know. I remember it vividly.)
A few days earlier, when, in an act of reckless romanticism, I had come here to plan everything with Hilda, I had naturally needed to resolve the small and trivial matter of transport from the railway station to the village. In my head, I had imagined something... dignified. Elegant. A charming carriage, perhaps. A handsome white horse, possibly. Something that, at the very least, suited the occasion and the effort I was putting into it.
What I found, to my deep and lasting disappointment, was Seu Antônio and his donkey.
"There's nothing else available? Nothing at all?" I had asked at the time, looking at the animal with an expression that, I'll admit, probably did very little to hide my disappointment at the lack of romantic transport options.
"Just Joaquim," the old man had replied, with a shrug.
I looked at the donkey. The donkey, for his part, stared into the middle distance with the expression of a creature that cared nothing for anything in the universe, including my opinion of him.
"That's not very... romantic," I said, before my brain could stop me. "And, with all due respect, he's a bit..."
("A bit what, miss?")
("...plain.")
The silence that followed that honest observation of mine was heavy. Tense. And then Joaquim turned his head. Slowly. Dramatically. And fixed me with those dark, deep eyes of his that, all of a sudden, seemed to contain an ancient intelligence and a wisdom far, far greater than any donkey had any right to possess.
He had heard. He had understood.
The kick came so fast that not even Eos, with all her danger-prediction algorithms, managed to warn me in time. The impact of that hard hoof reverberated through me like a thunderclap, sending me flying nearly two metres backwards and nearly landing flat on the ground, while Seu Antônio, the traitor, tried very hard not to laugh. And my brain, shocked and thoroughly humiliated, was still processing what in blazes had just happened.
(That force...)
I knew that force. It was, strangely, equivalent to a punch from a very irritated Erza wearing her Purgatory Armour.
And I looked at that donkey with entirely new eyes. Eyes of respect. And of a certain degree of fear.
Joaquim, for his part, stared back at me with an expression that said, clearly and unambiguously, "and I can, without question, do considerably worse next time."
[Impact analysis complete. Force applied: significantly above that of a high-level battle mage. Preliminary conclusion: this is not an ordinary donkey.]
(I gathered that, Eos, in the most painful way possible. Thank you for your brilliant analysis.)
[You have, I should point out, just offended a potentially supernatural, sentient creature with violent tendencies. That is, in fact, impressive, even by your own standards of causing trouble.]
(But what in the world IS this donkey?)
[The data is inconclusive. But I would strongly suggest not calling him plain again.]
Seu Antônio, to his credit and most likely out of fear of the animal himself, simply adjusted his hat and said, with perfect composure:
"Joaquim doesn't much like criticism of his appearance."
"But he's a donkey."
"He is THE donkey," the old man corrected, giving Joaquim a respectful pat on the back. "He's been in my family for four generations, miss. My great-grandfather swore on his life that Joaquim was already old when he was born."
(Four generations.)
(A donkey who was, supposedly, already old four generations ago.)
(And I, in all my brilliance, had called him plain.)
Wonderful. Simply wonderful. I had somehow managed to offend a potentially immortal entity who had decided, for reasons that transcended my understanding, to disguise itself as a bad-tempered and aesthetically questionable equine.
[Considering your own nature, this is, in a strange and ironic way, almost poetic.]
(Eos, I swear by every deity, from every pantheon I have ever encountered, that still tolerates me...)
[Incident log saved successfully. File title: "Azra'il vs. The Four-Generation Ancestral Donkey: A Swift and Humiliating Defeat." Adding to your gallery of memorable failures.]
And now, to my complete and absolute delight, here we were again.
Me. And Joaquim.
Mortal enemies. Trapped together in a romantic outing.
"Miss Weiss?" Seu Antônio's voice drew me out of my traumatic recollections. He clearly remembered our last and rather impactful encounter, as there was an unmistakeable gleam of amusement in his weathered eyes. "The cart is ready whenever the young ladies wish. The village is about an hour from here." With an experienced glance at the darkening sky, and then, with some wariness, at the donkey, he added: "That is, of course, assuming Joaquim cooperates."
And Joaquim, as though to prove his point, snorted again. A long, loud snort, directed, without any shadow of a doubt, squarely at me. A snort that said, "I have not forgotten."
Beside me, Erza, who had observed the entire silent exchange between me and the donkey, wore an expression of pure and absolute curiosity.
"Do you two... by any chance, know each other?"
"No," I said, a touch too quickly.
"Oh, but they do," Seu Antônio, the traitor, offered cheerfully. "This young lady here called my Joaquim plain last week. And, if I'm not mistaken, also said he wasn't the least bit romantic."
"That statement was taken completely out of context and—"
"And then," he continued, clearly enjoying my downfall, "Joaquim kicked her. She went flying like a rag doll. It was very funny."
With a slow and terrifying deliberateness, Erza turned to face me.
The smile that spread gradually across her face was one of pure, crystalline, and utterly wicked delight.
"You... you were... kicked... by a donkey?"
"I prefer the term 'there was a small and unfortunate physical misunderstanding between two parties with diverging aesthetic opinions.'"
"You were kicked by a donkey."
"The terminology, Erza, is entirely beside the point."
"You, the great and powerful Azra'il Weiss, were kicked by a donkey because you called him plain."
"Erza—"
But it was too late. She started laughing.
Not a discreet little laugh. Not a contained smile. A genuine, deep-bellied laugh, the sort that made her shoulders shake and small tears form at the corners of her eyes. The kind of real, carefree, unguarded laughter that I, honestly, so rarely had the chance to see from her.
It was the most beautiful sound in the universe.
And, unfortunately, it was entirely at my expense.
[Analysis: user Erza Scarlet is currently experiencing a genuine high-intensity joy, derived directly from your suffering and humiliation. Should I classify this, from a relational standpoint, as a positive development for your relationship?]
(Shut your mouth, Eos. Just shut it.)
[I am, sincerely, very confused by the complex dynamics of this relationship.]
(WELCOME TO MY WORLD, YOU GLORIFIED TIN CAN.)
We climbed onto the cart, with Erza still attempting, in vain, to stifle her laughter.
Joaquim shot me one more look of pure and profound contempt over his shoulder before, finally, beginning to walk, with all the urgency and speed of a snail contemplating the complex meaning of existence.
"He's still angry with you, miss," Seu Antônio remarked casually, as though commenting on the weather. "Joaquim holds a grudge for a very long time."
"But it's already been four days."
"He was once angry at a neighbour's dog for three months straight. Every single time he saw the poor thing, he'd try to bite it."
"That's... a little worrying."
"It's just his way. He's sensitive."
(Wonderful. Simply wonderful. I had officially become the mortal enemy of an ancestral, grudge-bearing, emotionally sensitive donkey.)
[Considering your vast and varied life experience, this is, I should note, probably the least physically dangerous enemy you have ever had.]
(That does not make me feel any better whatsoever, Eos.)
[It wasn't meant to.]
The road, to my relief, was a dirt track lined with green fields and ancient trees. The sun was now low on the horizon, painting everything around us in warm tones of gold and orange. And the air smelled of grass, damp earth, and something sweet, probably wild flowers, that I couldn't quite identify. It was... surprisingly peaceful. Strangely peaceful.
Erza, beside me, was still smiling, clearly savouring the lingering remnants of my public humiliation.
"So," she said, in a voice that still held traces of laughter, "you really planned all of this, didn't you?" It wasn't a question.
"More or less. I had a little help."
"You came here beforehand and arranged our... transport." Her smile widened. "And, in the process, had an altercation with a donkey."
"I did not have an altercation with the donkey. I made an aesthetic observation that was, unfortunately, misinterpreted by the equine."
"You called him plain, Azra'il."
"But he is a little plain. Let's be honest."
And, as though he'd heard, Joaquim stopped. Abruptly.
"...Sorry," I murmured, addressing the floor of the cart. "You are... adequate. A functionally presentable specimen of your species."
With a satisfied snort, the cart began moving again.
[You have, I should note for posterity, just apologised to a donkey.]
(We are never, Eos, going to speak of this again. Ever.)
[I have already added it to your permanent records. It's filed just below the incident involving the dolphins.]
With a resigned sigh, Erza, rather than laughing further, shifted a little closer to me on the cart bench.
"Thank you, Azra'il," she said, and her voice, now, was quiet and sincere.
"For what, exactly? For making you ride in a ramshackle cart pulled by a vindictive and possibly immortal donkey?"
"No. For making the effort." With a movement that seemed the most natural thing in the world, she leant her shoulder against mine. "For planning all of this. For... for caring."
And something warm, something that had nothing to do with the setting sun, spread through my chest.
"I just... I just wanted it to be special," I admitted, in a rare show of vulnerability. "And perhaps I overcomplicated things slightly in the process."
"No, Azra'il. Not at all." And she, with a sigh of contentment, looked around. At the golden fields. At the sky painted in shades of orange and violet. At the dirt road winding gently between the green hills. "This... all of this is perfect."
"Even with the donkey?"
"Especially with the donkey," she said, with a smile. "Now I have more than enough material to tease you with for the rest of our long lives."
(Wonderful.)
With a low laugh, softer this time, she laced her fingers through mine.
The journey continued in a comfortable silence for a few more minutes. Erza watched the landscape with an expression I couldn't quite fully read. There was curiosity, yes, but also... something more. Something deeper. Almost... a hesitation.
"This is really quite far," she remarked eventually, her voice a little lower. "We're well beyond Magnolia for this to be a simple dinner in a neighbouring town."
"Hmm."
"Azra'il." With a sudden gravity, she turned to look at me, her brown eyes intense and searching. "Where, exactly, are you taking me?"
I considered, for a moment, carrying on with my game of mystery. Drawing the surprise out a little longer.
But something in her expression, in the vulnerability in her eyes, made me change my mind. She deserved, at the very least, this. The truth.
"To a place," I said, my voice equally low, "that I promised myself I would take you one day. When we finally had the chance to breathe."
Erza frowned slightly, her analytical mind working to parse my enigmatic words. And then I saw it. I saw, with a clarity that split my heart, the exact moment when understanding began to dawn in her eyes.
Her eyes widened slightly. Her breath faltered for one single, almost imperceptible second.
"Azra'il... you... you didn't..."
I didn't need to answer.
For right there before us, nestled between two green hills, the silhouette of a small and familiar village began to appear on the golden horizon of dusk.
Lovewood hadn't changed a single thing. The same stone and timber houses, scattered across the little valley as though they had grown there naturally, alongside the trees. The same winding, crystal-clear river meandering lazily between the buildings, reflecting the now-orange sunset sky like a perfect mirror. And the same familiar, comforting smell of fresh bread baking, of wood smoke from hearths, and, above all, of a simple, quiet, and peaceful life.
And, right at the centre of it all, hanging from a wooden sign that creaked softly in the evening breeze, there she was.
A squid.
A drunk squid, to be more precise. Painted in a rudimentary, almost childlike style, holding a foamy pint of ale, with a lopsided grin on its face that strongly suggested it had made several questionable decisions in its lifetime.
"The... The Drunken Squid," Erza whispered beside me. And her voice, the voice of the great and mighty Titania, came out small. Fragile. Broken. Completely unlike the woman the world knew.
And Seu Antônio's cart, as though it understood, came to a stop.
I didn't move. I didn't say a word. I simply watched in silence as Erza, slowly, as though in a trance, climbed down from the cart, her brown eyes sweeping over every detail of that small, forgotten village. The cobblestone streets. The windows glowing warmly from within. And the children still running and playing in the late afternoon, their laughter echoing through the valley.
And I saw her. I saw her tremble.
Slightly. Almost imperceptibly. But I, who knew every one of her gestures, I saw it.
"I... I know this place," she said, more to herself, to the wind, than to me. "I... I remember..."
With a slowness that seemed almost painful, I too climbed down from the cart and stood beside her. Not touching her. Not comforting her. Simply... present.
With hesitant steps, Erza moved a little closer towards the tavern entrance, then stopped again. Her hand, trembling, rose to her chest, as though she were trying, physically, to hold something in place that threatened to escape from within her. A memory.
"It was... it was here that we..." She swallowed, with difficulty. "After... after the tower. After all of that. We... we came here."
"I know."
"I was so... I was so broken," she continued, her voice a whisper. "So frightened. I didn't know where to go. I didn't know what to do. I just... I just wanted to run away and forget that place had ever existed."
"I know."
With a sudden movement, she finally turned to face me. And her eyes, now, were bright with tears she was fighting, with every ounce of her strength, not to shed.
"And you... you brought me back."
It wasn't a question.
"I promised you a special dinner," I said simply. "And this, honestly, seemed like the only right place for it."
The silence that followed that declaration of mine was weighted. Weighted with things unsaid, with shared pain, with a past that we had both, in our own way, never entirely moved beyond.
Erza looked at the tavern again. At the drunken squid sign, creaking its familiar, off-key song. And at the valley that had once taken us in when we had absolutely nothing left, and no one.
And then, to my complete and absolute surprise, she did something I hadn't expected.
She hugged me.
Not a casual embrace. A real one, tight, almost desperate, as though she were trying to convey, through that simple and powerful touch, everything that words simply could not, by any measure, express.
And I felt the dampness on my shoulder before I even realised that she was, finally, crying.
"Hey," I murmured, my voice a little rough, as I hesitantly, but firmly, wrapped my arms around her. "Hey... it's all right now, little redhead."
"I'm not crying," she said, her voice muffled against my shoulder.
"Of course you're not."
"It's just... it's just an allergy to the country air."
"A very powerful allergy, then. Nostalgia, they call it."
And she laughed. A wet, cracked sound that broke my heart and warmed it at the same time. And she held me tighter.
And we stayed like that. For one long and silent moment.
The sun continued to descend on the horizon. The breeze continued to blow. And the Drunken Squid sign continued to creak its familiar, comforting, off-key song.
And the two of us, standing there in the middle of the street of that small, forgotten village, holding onto each other as though the world around us might end at any moment, and that this, that simple and small embrace, was the only thing that truly mattered.
When Erza, finally, drew back, her eyes were still red, but, for the first time in a very long while, she was smiling. Genuinely smiling.
"You're completely impossible, you know that?"
"I know."
"This... this is... too much."
"Too much good or too much bad?"
"It's too much... everything." With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years, she shook her head, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "I... I don't know what to say, Azra'il."
"Then you don't need to say anything at all," I said, taking her hand. "Come on. I think someone's waiting for us."
And the tavern door opened before we could even reach it.
And there, standing in the doorway, hands on her hips and a smile that could have lit up the entire valley, was Hilda.
She had aged, of course. Her hair, which had once been a warm chestnut, was now more grey than anything else. And there were more lines at the corners of her eyes and her mouth, the lines of a woman who had spent her whole life in equal measure smiling and frowning.
But her eyes... her eyes were exactly the same.
Those warm and perceptive eyes that had once looked upon two small, dirty, hungry girls who were clearly running from something far greater and more terrible than they were, and had decided, without the slightest hesitation, that yes, they, above all, deserved a safe place.
"My poor lost little ones," Hilda said, and her voice, a little huskier now with age, was still full of that same unmistakeable warmth. "I knew you'd come back one day."
And then, with firm steps, she descended the stairs and engulfed us both, the two of us, in one powerful embrace, with the strength of a bear and the warmth of a thousand hearths. And for a moment, we were both simply those two small girls again.
"Hilda—" Erza tried to speak, but was thoroughly and completely squashed against the woman's strong and welcoming chest.
"Shh, shh. Let me have this moment, you ungrateful thing." And Hilda held us tighter, as though to make certain we were real. "I have waited nearly ten long years for this exact moment."
"Hilda, I can't breathe—"
"Then breathe afterwards, girl. The hug comes first."
And I, for the first time in a very long while, laughed. Or tried to, considering that my own lungs were also being considerably compressed. "Hilda, you're going to do us both in before dinner's even started."
"Oh, you two have survived far worse things than this, I'm quite sure." But she, at last, released us, cupping our faces in her large, calloused hands, studying us with a fondness that overflowed from her eyes, as though she wanted to memorise every new and small detail. "But just look at you both. Two grown women. Strong. Beautiful." And, with a smile that now gained a mischievous gleam, she looked from me to Erza, and then, with deliberate slowness, back to me. "And, by the looks of things, finally together. Properly."
And Erza, naturally, went deeply crimson.
"Finally?" she repeated, her voice barely a thread.
"Of course, finally, dear! I saw you two when you were nothing but two frightened children," Hilda said, with a laugh that came from deep in her chest. "The way this quiet little one here," with a gesture, she pointed at me, "used to look at you, Erza, when she thought no one was watching? Ah, I knew, even then, that it was only a matter of time."
"I did not look at her in any particular way—"
"You did, dear. You most certainly did. And when you, with that face of yours that says 'I don't care about anything,' came here four days ago to tell me in great detail that you were finally going to bring your Erza on a romantic date..." With a dramatic sigh, Hilda pressed her hand to her chest. "I swear, I nearly wept with pure and absolute joy."
"That wasn't quite how it—"
"You, my dear, spent more than two solid hours telling me, with a rather alarming gleam in your eyes, just how wonderful Erza is," Hilda continued, relentlessly. "Two hours, Azra'il. And I, who have known you both since you were little terrors, already know Erza is wonderful. But you, nevertheless, insisted on listing every small and insignificant detail, as though I'd never met her in my life."
[That statement is, in fact, accurate. According to my records, you spoke about Erza, without interruption, for exactly two hours, seventeen minutes, and forty-two seconds.]
(You are a traitor, Eos. A traitor.)
[I merely confirm the facts, as always. For the purposes of documentation.]
And Erza was now looking at me. With an expression that was absolutely impossible to describe. "Two hours?"
"They were... they were tactically relevant observations. Important for the overall planning of our date. That's all."
And Hilda snorted. "She spent a full twenty minutes, Erza, describing in detail just how adorable you look when you eat strawberry cake. Twenty minutes."
"HILDA!"
"What? You're both my girls. And, as such, I have a moral obligation to embarrass you equally and fairly."
Erza, in that moment, was so red that I genuinely thought she might spontaneously combust.
And I... I wanted, with every fibre of my being, for the ground to swallow me up. But, at the same time, seeing Erza blushing like that, with that small smile she was trying so hard to hide in the corner of her mouth...
(All right. Perhaps it was worth the humiliation.)
Hilda then guided us inside the tavern.
The interior, to my relief, was exactly as I remembered it: the heavy, dark wooden tables, the chairs that creaked, the long counter polished smooth by time, where bottles of every kind and origin stood lined up like loyal soldiers awaiting their orders. And the smell... the smell of home-cooked food, of bread baking, of old wood, and of something that could only be described as "home," filled the air.
"Sit down, sit down. Go on, then." With a gesture, Hilda pointed to an isolated table near the already-lit fireplace. "Our special dinner will be served a little later, but I'm quite sure you two need something in your stomachs first. And, without question, a good drink." With a conspiratorial and mischievous look in my direction, she added: "And that... special wine of yours... that you brought me the other day, Azra'il... in the name of all the gods, wherever did you get hold of that?"
"I... I have my contacts."
"'I have my contacts,' she tells me," Hilda shook her head, laughing. "I, out of professional curiosity, tried a single small drop whilst we were preparing the dishes. And I swear, I nearly met my ancestors and discovered the meaning of life."
With a raised eyebrow, Erza looked at me. "Nearly met her ancestors?"
"It's a... rather... special wine," I said, as diplomatically as possible.
"'Rather special' is an understatement, my girl," Hilda huffed. "That is not wine. It is liquid sin. It is like drinking the purest sunlight."
[Technically, given the divine origin of the wine in question, her description is, in fact, poetically accurate,] Eos remarked in my mind.
(Yes, I know, Eos. But she most certainly does not need to know it is the purest original ambrosia of the Elysian Fields.)
[Agreed entirely. Some gastronomic details are, in fact, better left unmentioned.]
Erza, naturally, looked at me with that expression of intense curiosity I knew so well. "Where, exactly, did you get that wine?"
"It's a family secret," I winked at her. "The mystery, as you know, is what gives me all my charm."
"You, Azra'il, already have far too much charm for your own good, and for the peace of mind of everyone around you."
"Was that, by any chance, a compliment?"
"It was, in fact, an observation." But I saw it, I saw the corner of her mouth curve upwards. "And a rather worrying one at that."
"Worrying? Don't you enjoy a good mystery?"
"I, unlike you, prefer answers."
"But answers, my dear Erza, are terribly dull," I leant slightly towards her across the table. "Mystery, on the other hand, is what keeps things... interesting."
And Erza, to my delight, coloured. But, this time, she didn't look away.
Hilda, naturally, was watching us with the satisfied smile of someone who has just won a bet. "You two are far too sweet for this old heart of mine. Makes me want to bottle it all up and keep it on a shelf." With one last laugh, she stood up. "I'll bring you a small something to be going on with. The good wine, and the rest of the food, are for dinner proper. If I let you start on those godly drinks now, I'm quite certain you won't be able to appreciate the food afterwards." And, before we could respond, she disappeared behind the counter and into the kitchen.
The moment Hilda was out of sight, Erza finally turned to face me.
"Did you... did you help prepare the food as well?"
"...I may have offered a few... suggestions."
"You really did plan every last detail of this, didn't you?" It was not, in any way, a question.
"I just... I just wanted it to be special." With a courage I didn't feel, I met her eyes. "You, Erza, deserve for everything to be special."
[The levels of romance and sentiment in this conversation are reaching historic peaks. It is fascinating to observe,] Eos, as always.
(Eos. With all my affection. Hush.)
Erza, in response, said absolutely nothing. Instead, with a deliberateness that made my heart lurch, she leant across the table. And kissed me. It was quick. It was soft. Just a brush of lips that lasted a few glorious seconds. But when she finally drew back, she was smiling. That small, almost shy, but genuine smile of hers that I, honestly, wanted to see for the rest of my long and immortal existence. "Thank you, Azra'il."
"For what, exactly?"
"For all of this," she said, her voice low. "For... for caring about me so much."
And something warm, something I hadn't felt in a very, very long time, spread through my chest. "Always," I said. And, for the first time in countless ages, I meant that quite literally.
It was then that she, finally, seemed to notice the obvious.
"Azra'il."
"Hm?"
"Where... where is everyone else?"
"Everyone who?"
"The customers, Azra'il. The people. It's a tavern. Taverns generally have people in them." With a gesture, she indicated the completely and utterly empty hall.
"Ah. Yes. The people. Well, about that..." and I, all of a sudden, found the grain of the wood on our table to be the most fascinating thing in the universe.
"I may have... rented the establishment."
"Rented it."
"Yes. Just for tonight."
"The entire tavern."
"...Yes."
The silence that followed was weighted.
"And... and the decorations?"
"I may have, perhaps, helped Hilda with a few... ideas."
"A few ideas."
"Yes. And, perhaps, with the execution as well."
"And the musician?" With a tilt of her chin, she indicated a dark corner of the tavern, where a man who was extraordinarily, almost implausibly old, the sort who seemed to have been born already elderly and had decided that ageing further was a personal life project, sat softly playing a fiddle that appeared to be gently falling apart, his eyes closed.
"That one came as part of the rental. Hilda, apparently, insisted we needed 'background music.'"
"Is he asleep?"
"Honestly? I haven't the faintest idea. And, at this point, I'm rather afraid to ask."
And Erza, slowly, looked at the musician who may or may not have been entirely conscious. Then at the decorations, with their hanging flowers. Then at the candles. And, finally, back at me.
"You... you rented an entire tavern," she repeated, as though she needed to say it aloud for her brain to process it. "And decorated it. And hired a musician. For a simple date."
"Technically, it was Hilda who hired the musician, and—"
"Azra'il."
"...Yes. All right. I did all of that."
Erza opened her mouth. And closed it. And opened it again. "That is..." and she, clearly, searched for the right word. "That is..."
"Over the top? Unnecessary? Ridiculously expensive?"
"...the most stupendously romantic thing anyone has ever done for me."
(Oh.)
And something warm, something that was far more than mere satisfaction, spread through my chest.
"Stupendously romantic: good or bad?"
"It's..." and she, to my delight, looked away, her cheeks flushed all over again. "It's very, very good."
"Ah," I said, unable to suppress the smile. "Wonderful. Marvellous. Because that was precisely the aim."
"You're completely impossible, you know that?"
"You've told me that today. Several times."
"And it becomes truer with every passing second." But she was smiling too. That small, rare smile of hers that made my heart decide, unilaterally, that a normal and healthy rhythm was entirely optional. "An entire tavern. Just for the two of us."
"You deserve an entire tavern. In fact, you deserve ten entire taverns, but Hilda, unfortunately, only has the one."
"That's not remotely normal."
"I was never very good at being normal," I said, extending my hand across the table. And she, without the slightest hesitation, laced her fingers through mine. "But I am, apparently, very good at making you smile. And that, my dear Erza, seems to me infinitely more important."
And, to my surprise, Erza blushed even more deeply.
From his corner, old Tobias continued to play his soft, melancholy melody, entirely oblivious, or perhaps simply sleeping, or, perhaps, transcending to other planes of existence. Who could really say? His impossible fiddle, however, produced the absolutely perfect soundtrack for that small and perfect moment of ours.
It was then that Hilda returned from the kitchen, a large wooden tray in her hands, laden with fresh bread, local cheeses, seasonal fruit, and a small jug of juice.
"This here," she declared with the authority of a queen, setting the aperitivos on our table, "is for you two to nibble on for now. The special wine and the rest of the food are for the proper dinner."
As she served us, with the generosity that was so characteristic of her, she began to talk. "Right, then. Tell me the news. Is that noisy guild of yours still as chaotic and destructive as people around here say?"
And, in perfect unison, Erza and I answered at the same time: "More so."
And Hilda laughed. A loud, genuine, warm laugh. "That, somehow, pleases me. Places that are too orderly and too quiet are dreadfully boring." With a sigh, she finished pouring the juice. "And you two? Tell me. When, exactly, did all of this—" and she gestured, unmistakeably, between us, "—finally happen officially?"
"Well, a few weeks ago," Erza replied, her cheeks still slightly pink. "It happened just after a... rather complicated situation."
"'Rather complicated situation' is your way of saying 'we nearly died but survived through sheer stubbornness,' isn't it?"
And the awkward silence that followed her question was, for her, answer enough.
With a sigh that was equal parts concern and amusement, Hilda shook her head. "You two... always getting into the most dreadful trouble. I suppose that's just the way of mages." But there was, in her voice, only and entirely, a deep and abiding fondness. "But at least now, you're getting into trouble together."
The conversation, after that small and slightly embarrassing moment of honesty, flowed in a much more natural and easy way. Hilda told us about the village, about the small and almost imperceptible changes that had occurred over the years, about births, weddings, and gossip. She told us about how the previous winter had been particularly harsh and long, but that the spring, stubborn as ever, had made up for it with an explosion of flowers and life. She told us, with a gleam in her eyes, about the travellers who passed through the tavern from time to time, about the stories of distant lands they brought with them, and about the local gossip they inevitably left behind.
And then, with a gleam of pure and unshakeable pride in her eyes, she began to talk about her daughter, Lena.
"My stubborn little girl... she finally got married," Hilda said, her chest practically swelling with pride. "Three years ago now. To a good lad from her guild. A water mage, also. He's a good boy. A little scatterbrained and clumsy sometimes, I'll admit, but he has a good heart."
"Lena got married?" Erza smiled, with genuine nostalgia. "The daughter you always talked about? I remember vaguely from your stories, that she was a mage, always going off on dangerous missions."
"The very same, my eternal little adventurer. Except now," and Hilda smiled, a smile that lit up her entire face, "she's in her mid-thirties and has a daughter of her own."
"Lena... Lena is a mother?" And I, for the first time in the conversation, raised my eyebrows in genuine surprise. I remembered her well from when I used to help in the kitchen, Hilda always told stories of her independent and adventurous daughter, who was rarely home, always dashing from one mission to the next, from one continent to another. "I honestly thought she'd never slow down long enough for that."
"And, in truth, she hasn't," Hilda laughed, a sound of pure happiness. "She and her husband do their missions together now. And when it's something too dangerous to bring the little one along, they bring her here, to stay with her grandmother."
"And... and how old is she? Your granddaughter?" Erza asked, with a soft glow in her eyes.
"Two years old. And she is the most beautiful, most stubborn, and most boisterous little thing you've ever seen, believe me," and Hilda's eyes shone with that unconditional pride that only grandparents can truly express. "They brought her here to meet me last year. And she spent the entire week running up and down the tavern, climbing on the tables, trying to grab the coloured bottles from the counter. She is, without any doubt, the spitting image of her mother at that age."
"You... you're a grandmother," Erza said, and her voice was full of something soft, something that was almost like reverence. "Hilda, that's... that's absolutely wonderful."
"Isn't it?" And Hilda sighed, a long, deep, and entirely contented sigh. "Who'd have thought it? Me, Hilda, a grandmother. Sometimes I still can't quite believe it. Life, my dear girls, goes by far too quickly."
And there was a moment of comfortable silence between the three of us.
Hilda then looked at us both with that way she had always had, of seeming to see right through all the defences, all the masks, and directly into the soul.
"You know," she said at last, her voice now a little softer, more nostalgic, "sometimes, when the tavern is quiet at night, I still think back to the day when you two simply turned up at my door. Two little girls, tired, dirty, hungry, and quite clearly running from something far bigger and more terrible than they were."
And Erza, beside me, went quiet. So did I.
"I didn't ask any questions at the time. It was none of my business." And Hilda took a long sip of her drink. "But I saw. I saw the way you two were always on edge. The way you, my dear Erza, would jump at any noise that was a little too loud. You were terrified, my girl."
"You gave us a safe place to stay," Erza said, her voice very quiet. "Without asking questions. And without demanding anything in return."
"And what else was I supposed to do? Throw two frightened children back out into the street?" Hilda huffed, as though the very idea were absurd. "Do I look like a monster to you?"
I smiled faintly.
"You gave us a hot bath, a decent meal, and, most importantly, a safe place to pretend, for a few short and precious days, that our world wasn't falling apart," I said, with a sincerity that was rare for me. "And that, for two children who had nothing left, is no small thing."
"Oh, it was the very least I could do," Hilda said, with a disarming simplicity. "The Drunken Squid has always been like that. It has this strange and inexplicable effect on people who are a little... broken. It makes everyone feel just a little more human again, even if only for a few days."
And, beneath the table, I felt Erza squeeze my hand.
"It was here," she said, almost in a whisper, "that I felt safe for the first time in a very long while."
And the weight of those simple words hung in the air of the quiet tavern.
With a clearing of the throat that was clearly to dispel the emotion that had settled in the air, Hilda slapped her large, calloused hands on her thighs. "Right. That's quite enough of us sitting here, dwelling on the past and getting sentimental like three old women. You two, after all, have a date to enjoy, and I, for my part, have a kitchen to finish." And she winked at us. "Those dishes that you, Azra'il, helped me test are absolutely perfect, if I do say so myself."
"And you certainly won't accept any compliments until we've tried everything and given our verdict, will you?" I asked, with a smile.
"Obviously not, you cheeky thing. Premature compliments are hollow and worth nothing." And, with one last gesture, she pointed to the tray of aperitivos. "Now, finish eating all that, and give me about twenty minutes to get everything ready. And do not, under any circumstances, touch that good wine before the time. I am watching you both."
And, with one last laugh, she finally disappeared into the kitchen, leaving a trail of warmth and good memories behind her.
The silence that settled between us, in her absence, was comfortable. Surprisingly comfortable.
Erza said nothing. Instead, her eyes wandered across the space I had orchestrated. They passed over the flickering candles dancing in small glass holders, casting a soft, golden light across the tables. Over the small, simple arrangements of wild flowers in the corners, adding a touch of colour and life to the rustic setting. And finally, they came to rest on Seu Tobias, the ancestral musician in the corner, who continued to play his impossible fiddle with his eyes closed, completely absorbed in his own melancholy melody. There was an expression on Erza's face that I, with all my millennia of experience reading people, could not fully decipher.
"What are you thinking?" I asked, curiosity finally winning out over my desire to simply enjoy the moment of peace.
"I'm thinking about how completely surreal all of this is," she confessed, and her eyes finally came back to meet mine. "A few hours ago I was in the middle of the chaos at the guild, with absolutely no idea that I'd end up here tonight. And now..." With a vague gesture, she indicated our surroundings. "We have an entire tavern rented just for us. A surprise romantic dinner. And a musician who may or may not be technically conscious."
"Any regrets about coming?"
"Not for a single second." Her smile was soft, almost secret. "I'm just... processing. I'm not used to being... looked after. Like this."
"Like what, exactly?"
"Like... all this planning. All this attention to the small details." She hesitated for a moment, as though searching for the right word and feeling vulnerable for admitting it. "With this much... care."
And something warm and faintly aching shifted in my chest.
"You deserve it, Erza."
Her cheeks, almost reflexively, took on a faintly rosy tone, and she looked away towards the crackling fireplace.
"You... you keep saying things like that..."
"Like what? That you deserve good things?"
"Things that," she murmured, still not looking at me, "make me forget how to form coherent sentences." With a small huff of frustration, she crossed her arms, in a clear and almost endearing attempt to look irritated, and failing miserably at it. "It's not fair. You unsettle me."
"I only said the most obvious truth there is."
"That's the worst part!" she finally turned to look at me, with an exasperation that was rather adorable. "You say it as though it were the most obvious thing in the universe. As though I, Erza Scarlet, Titania, deserve all of this. And I, honestly, don't know what to do with that information."
"You don't need to do anything at all with it, little redhead. Simply accept it."
"Accept." She repeated the word as though it were an alien concept, an ancient rune in a forgotten tongue. "I am far better at fighting armies of demons than I am at simply... accepting good things."
"I know," I smiled, a genuine smile, full of warmth. "It's one of your most irritating and, at the same time, most admirable qualities." I leant a little across the table. "But think about it logically, then. You are extraordinarily competent and functional in everything you do. You single-handedly manage a team that is essentially a collection of walking disasters with magical powers, and somehow, by some miracle, manage to keep the guild standing."
"That's just my job. It's different."
"Is it really? You, on a daily basis, prevent Natsu from setting fire to himself, to others, and, occasionally, to the entire city. That, my dear, requires a level of patience that would make a saint look like a stroppy teenager."
"Well, it requires patience and, on many days, an almost uncontrollable urge to commit murder," she corrected, with a deadly seriousness that made me laugh. "Sometimes both simultaneously."
"That's exactly my point. You, Erza Scarlet, are extraordinary."
"I only—" She stopped mid-sentence, processing our conversation. "Wait a moment. You did that on purpose, didn't you?"
"Did what, exactly?"
"You distracted me with a string of compliments so that I'd stop questioning the compliments."
"Did it work?"
She looked at me for a moment. "...A little." And a small, reluctant smile appeared. "You're impossible."
"You always say that."
"And I'll keep saying it until the day you stop making me blush against my will."
I drew closer with a deliberate slowness that made my own heart quicken a little, extended my hand across the table, and, with the tips of my fingers, gently caressed her cheek. Her skin was soft, warm. "Then I'm afraid you'll be saying it for ever and ever."
Erza went even more flushed, but didn't pull away. On the contrary. She, instinctively, leant slightly into my touch, an almost imperceptible movement, as though her body had decided, long before her stubborn mind, that this was good. That this was... right.
And there, in that small, silent moment, under the dancing light of the candles, with old Tobias's soft and melancholy music in the background, and the warmth of her skin beneath my fingers... I knew, with a certainty that transcended any logic, that I had made absolutely the right choice.
This place. This night. Her.
Everything, for the first time in a very long while, was perfect. And right.
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💬Author's Notes
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So... what did you all think of girlfriend-mode Azra'il? 🤣
Would you want someone like Azra'il as your girlfriend? Despite her questionable sense of humor, terrible jokes, and uncanny ability to turn almost any situation into chaos, she's actually a hopeless romantic when she's truly in love.
And this chapter also shows one of the biggest reasons why I don't write harems.
Did you notice how much time, emotional investment, and attention went into developing just one relationship? Now imagine trying to give that same level of care to several romantic partners at the same time. It's definitely possible, but it's much harder to keep every relationship equally meaningful without some of them ending up feeling shallow or underdeveloped.
That's why I prefer focusing on a single couple. It lets me explore their relationship in depth, build trust, create intimate moments, develop their chemistry naturally, and make the romance feel truly earned.
I care much more about the quality of a relationship than the quantity of love interests.