The furious snowstorm blew mercilessly, as if trying to strip the world of all color and sound.
Outside the small stone church. Under a sky covered with thick snow clouds, in the midst of a white landscape that felt darker than dusk, Samsa stopped in her tracks.
A few steps ahead of the girl wearing her veil and Andalusian-style haik, a monk with a back as broad as a giant rock turned calmly.
"Do you need something from me?"
His voice, which cut through the sound of the wind, was low, yet surprisingly soft.
The man was fully aware that he was being followed, but he did not run away or intimidate; he just waited. From behind her coat, Samsa had unconsciously brought her right hand closer to the handle of her weapon. However, instead of drawing her weapon, she just stood still and stared intently at the man's face.
A face with stern features. Deep, quiet eyes that showed no emotion. And unusually long ears sticking out from under the hood of his monk's robe.
Even before her sense of alertness kicked in, a strange sense of déjà vu flashed through Samsa's mind.
This man... I've seen him somewhere before.
In replacing her lost sense of emotion, Samsa lived her life by honing her memory and observation skills to the maximum. She would never forget anything she had ever seen. However, the memory of encountering this formidable monk was nowhere to be found in her database of the past.
She pulled her memory thread even deeper, back to the time when she traveled to various places with Himmel.
Under the warm sunlight, in the depths of dense forests, or in remote villages seemingly forgotten by people. Little Samsa, walking in step with the Hero Himmel, had seen countless sights.
— Suddenly, a scene flashed before her like a flashback.
An old stone statue covered in moss.
A statue of a soldier, or perhaps a monk, that Himmel had stared at when they stopped at some ancient ruins. The silhouette of the weathered stone statue, its contours eroded, its name long forgotten, blended so perfectly with the face of the man standing before it now.
An existence living in the present with the exact same form as the statue from hundreds, or perhaps thousands of years ago.
The long flow of time between them, which Himmel had once recounted while squinting his eyes near the campfire. Samsa released her hand from the weapon's handle, then in the middle of the snowstorm, she asked bluntly with a few short words.
"Are you an elf?"
Hearing the question that was too blunt and straight to the point, the tension in the air suddenly eased.
Kraft stared at Samsa's expressionless face for a few seconds, before finally a thin smile slipped from his lips with a "Hmph."
For someone who had lived as long as he had, he must have sensed whether there was any "killing intent" or "hostility" in the presence of the person stalking her from behind. However, the words that came out of the little girl's mouth, who had not lowered her guard, were not a declaration of murder or a threat of robbery, but merely pure and awkward curiosity; this seemed to instantly dispel the Elf's vigilance.
"Ah, it seems I have attracted the curiosity of a nosy child."
The elf muttered as if talking to himself and shrugged his broad shoulders.
"That is correct. I am Kraft, an Elf. Merely a monk serving the Goddess. And you?"
"...Samsa."
"Samsa. You seem to have some understanding of swordsmanship... but did you chase me through this blizzard, shivering all the while, just to ask if I were an Elf?"
Kraft's words carried a soothing resonance, much like someone coaxing a small child. Samsa lowered her gaze slightly, trying to assemble the fragments of what she truly intended to ask.
An Elf. A long-lived race existing within a flow of time entirely different from that of humans. If Himmel's words were true, they could easily endure for hundreds of years. If that were the case, then perhaps it was possible.
"...Do you know of Frieren?"
Samsa uttered the name calmly.
Frieren.
It was the name Himmel—her savior, her foster father, and the hero who saved the world—had spoken of countless times, as something more precious and beloved to him than anything else.
Stroking his snow-covered chin, Kraft shifted his gaze toward the empty air.
"Frieren... Frieren, I see. I feel as though I've heard that name somewhere before. But when you have lived as long as I have, names and faces often cease to align. I cannot say for certain if I have ever truly met her."
Kraft looked down at Samsa.
"Does she have any defining traits? Her appearance, or perhaps the flow of her mana. If there is a hint, I might be able to remember."
"Her physical appearance..."
Samsa tried to answer, opening her mouth—and then, she froze.
Her clear mind ground to a halt.
Defining appearance… of Frieren?
Samsa knew Frieren was an Elven mage. Yet, when asked to describe her appearance, she was struck by the startling realization that she had no idea what Frieren objectively looked like.
Whenever they camped or strolled through a town, Himmel would often speak of Frieren. However, the image of Frieren portrayed through Himmel's words was... well, far too personal
"Samsa, Elves really are not morning people at all. If I go to wake Frieren up, her hair is a mess, like a bird's nest. Just helping her get dressed is an ordeal; she's like a grown-up child."
"You know, she doesn't care at all for grand spells that could change history, but if she finds a silly grimoire like 'Magic to Melt Clothes' or 'Magic to Clean Rust off Bronze Statues,' her face lights up with such pride. It's adorable."
"Her hands... they always feel a little cold."
Those were the only "traits" of Frieren that Himmel ever mentioned.
Not the color of her hair, nor how tall she was, what kind of staff she carried, or the sound of her voice. Not once did Himmel share anything a third party could use to identify her.
He only spoke of "how difficult she was to wake," her "proud expression when collecting useless magic," and the "cold temperature of her hands" with such profound affection—as if he were describing the most precious treasure in the world.
Amidst the blizzard, a sudden tightness gripped Samsa's chest.
"...I don't know."
Samsa shook her head slowly behind the cover of her scarf.
"You don't know?"
"That person... the Frieren Himmel spoke of was always... someone who couldn't wake up in the morning, or who loved collecting strange spells—only things like that. I don't know what color her hair is, or how tall she stands."
Samsa murmured softly, giving up on the explanation.
The love of the Hero Himmel to Frieren was a devotion so intimate that it left no room for the objective world to intervene. Through Kraft's question, Samsa now understood with painful clarity how Himmel viewed Frieren's existence from a perspective so special, within a world entirely his own. She did not know the Elf named Frieren; she only knew the shadow of 'the Frieren whom Himmel loved.'
Seeing Samsa struggle to explain, her gaze drifting toward something far away, Kraft offered a faint smile once more.
"I see. It sounds like a very personal and beautiful memory. To a man like Himmel, height or hair color were likely trivial things of no importance."
As if seeking refuge from the snow, Kraft stepped slightly toward the church's overhang and gestured for Samsa to join him.
"If Frieren is a mage, it is no wonder I do not know her."
Kraft narrowed his eyes, as if searching for a memory from the distant past.
"Indeed in the past, I occasionally saw groups of mages gathered around Serie, the Great Mage who lived as if from the age of myth. But the path they walked was different from mine."
Kraft gently touched the symbol of the Goddess engraved upon his chest.
"For a long time, I did not place myself on the path of magic, but rather on the path of faith and theology. My journey was to converse with priests and monks, and to bear witness to their fleeting lives."
In Kraft's tone, there was a blend of quiet resignation and the warmth unique to those who have lived for a very long time.
"The only ones I can say I truly knew were perhaps those around my old friend, Abraham. He was a great man who inherited the Goddess's theology, spreading it across the world and laying the foundations for many churches—much like the one behind you now."
Kraft's words sounded epic, as if he were turning the pages of a history book, yet they were filled with the intimate yearning of someone missing a dear friend. The Elven perception of time. The fleeting lives of humans. And the memories woven to transcend it all.
Kraft looked down at Samsa, who had been listening in silence, and tilted his head.
"Now, that is enough of my past. I cannot help you with Frieren's appearance... but is there anything else I might answer to satisfy that persistent curiosity of yours?"
The question invited Samsa to delve deeper into herself. Ordinarily, she would have simply given a small shake of her head, turned, and left without a word. By nature, she was reserved—limiting her interactions to the bare minimum, living only to protect the void within her.
However, the aura of immense time radiating from this long-eared stranger had unconsciously pried open her tightly sealed lips.
"...Prayer," Samsa murmured softly behind her dust-caked scarf.
"Prayer, you say?"
"Prayers in the church. I've always wondered what it is people pray for."
Samsa lowered her gaze. Visualizing the interior of the church she had just departed, she began to speak without a clear direction. Even she didn't understand why she was confessing this to an Elf she had only just met. It was simply a feeling—that this man might know the answer to the question that had been smoldering in the depths of her heart.
"Humans are easy to understand. The burdens they shoulder and the hopes they harbor are plain to see. The mother in the church just now was surely praying for her child. That blind old man, praying for his departed wife."
Samsa paused there, then slowly lifted her gaze.
"But Himmel was different."
"Himmel... he prayed for an Elf who would live far longer than he ever could. Even though he must have known that, as a human, he would pass away first, and that she would continue to live on alone for thousands of years. Despite that, he clumsily and desperately prayed for Frieren's happiness."
Samsa's hazel eyes stared straight into Kraft's deep, dark gaze.
"What do you pray for? I cannot guess your family, your age, or anything else. Only your prayers remain utterly unreadable to me."
In response to Samsa's blunt question, Kraft did not answer immediately.
He gazed up at the storm-swept sky, then slowly looked down at his own large hands. Thick, calloused hands that had likely weathered countless battles and witnessed just as many deaths.
"I see. So that is how you observe and attempt to understand the world."
Kraft smiled softly.
"What I pray for... Before I answer you directly, allow me to share one of the Goddess's teachings with you."
Kraft's low voice resonated with a strange warmth amidst the blizzard.
"People often offer prayers for those they love or those who have passed. That is a noble and beautiful thing. However, the Goddess also teaches us this: 'Never forget to pray not only for others, but for yourself as well.'"
"A prayer... for myself..."
Samsa pondered those words, rolling them over her tongue as if to taste them.
Ever since she was branded with the mark of a slave, she had ceased to hope for anything for herself. She had used the singular goal of "returning home" as her only reason to survive; not once had she ever prayed for her own happiness or peace.
"If you still wish to know what I pray for, I shall answer you."
Kraft met Samsa's gaze with a steady composure.
"What I offered before the altar just now... was simply a prayer of surrender to the Goddess."
"Surrender?"
"That is correct. To surrender my entire being, and to exist within the great, divine flow. Without wishing for anything, without mourning for anything—simply offering myself completely to the absolute existence of the Goddess. That is the prayer I desire most at this time."
As she heard those words, two entirely different "forms of love" intersected silently within Samsa's heart.
The total surrender to the Absolute Goddess, of which Kraft spoke.
And the blind, clumsy love for another, as embodied by Himmel.
Himmel was not a devout believer. He was not the type of man to open the Goddess's scriptures and deliver sermons. Yet, by loving an Elf named Frieren, and by loving the nameless masses, he found a sense of "holiness" within human bonds, even without the need for holy books.
On one hand, Kraft, living in eternity, surrendered everything to the inner universe called faith.
On the other hand, Himmel, running with all his might through his fleeting life, found eternity in the bond with the one he loved.
Both were forms of the soul that were extraordinarily vast and beautiful.
"...To pray… for myself."
Samsa murmured the words once more. For some reason, the concept felt familiar, slowly seeping deep into the bedrock of her heart.
"May the Goddess's protection be upon your journey."
Kraft gave a slight nod, then turned his back to the girl and walked out into the heart of the blizzard.
"Have a safe journey, Samsa."
That massive back slowly dissolved into the white noise of the falling snow. Samsa did not try to stop him. She simply stood frozen in the snow-covered field until he had vanished completely from her sight.
A moment later, Samsa turned and pushed the heavy wooden doors of the church open once again.
The interior remained as it was before, enveloped in the sweet scent of beeswax and a profound silence. The villagers who had been offering their prayers were gone.
Samsa walked straight toward the altar and took a seat on the very front pew. Then, she slowly closed her eyes and interlaced her fingers.
Not for Himmel, nor for the villagers who had perished. At this moment, in this very second, she intended to pray for herself.
In the darkness behind her closed eyelids, an old memory suddenly flickered to life. It was not a memory of fire and blood, but something older, warmer—something she had long since forgotten.
A warm room. The comforting sensation of a wooden comb running through the back of her head. While gently combing her pink hair, which was still long back then, her mother would always hum the melody of an ancient lullaby.
The meaning of the name Samsa.
In the ancient tongue, that name meant The Sun.
The soft singing of her mother echoed clearly in the depths of her ears.
"—If your heat burns me, I love you still, my little sun."
It was a song of absolute love; of total acceptance and devotion, even toward an existence that would consume itself with such immense heat.
"—Even if your heat reaches its zenith, then cools, and flickers in the wild dark... I will always love you."
A form of love so deep it felt almost maddening, seemingly aligned with the total surrender to the Absolute that Kraft had spoken of. Yet, this was no complex theological concept; it was simply the selfless prayer of a mother cherishing her child.
She had been brought into this world, loved that deeply.
That single truth slightly thawed the frozen depths of Samsa's heart. Behind her closed eyelids, she felt a flicker of warmth.
Having finished her prayer, Samsa left the church and headed toward the village's small inn. She paid with a silver coin and set her belongings down in the simple room shown to her. First, she needed to cleanse her freezing body and her skin, which was soiled with the remnants of battle.
In the small bathhouse at the back of the inn, she submerged herself in a wooden tub filled with hot water. The heat slowly seeped into the tips of her frozen fingers and toes.
The calligraphic design she had carved herself over the slave brand appeared dark and prominent against the steam. It was the proof of her own strength, just as Himmel had taught her.
After a quick wash, Samsa changed into clean linen sleepwear and sat on the edge of the bed. The fire in the hearth crackled with a comforting sound.
She pulled a small wooden comb from her belongings and began to slowly brush her pink hair—which was now cut short. Each time the teeth of the comb passed through her strands, the melody she had recalled at the church altar flowed naturally from her lips.
"...If your heat burns me, I love you still, my little sun."
Her voice was raspy yet calm, intended for no one's ears but her own. Her eyes, usually devoid of emotion, now gazed steadily at the fire in the hearth.
"Even if your heat reaches its zenith, cools, and flickers in the wild dark..."
Samsa set the comb aside and slid beneath the thick covers. Enveloped in the comforting warmth of the blanket, she softly hummed the final lyric.
"...I will always… love you."
The roar of the blizzard outside was muffled by the thick walls, fading into a faint hum in the distance.
Kraft's profound words, Himmel's warm hands, and the sound of her mother's singing—all of it became a small sun for Samsa, quietly illuminating the hollow void within her. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in her long journey, she fell into a deep sleep, free from nightmares.