Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Gilded Grimoire was a contradiction of a shop, caught somewhere between a medieval study, a modern café, and a workshop of forbidden knowledge.

The front entrance, nestled between two taller brick buildings, was marked by an old-fashioned wooden sign with gilded lettering. The words The Gilded Grimoire were etched in delicate Elvish script, though the sign itself was slightly weathered, giving the impression that the shop had stood there for centuries—despite Frieren’s questionable commitment to maintenance. The door, solid oak reinforced with iron filigree, creaked when opened, and the bell overhead let out a soft, musical chime, distinctly magical in nature.

Inside, the scent of roasted coffee beans mingled with the musty aroma of ancient paper. The space was dimly lit by a mixture of modern hanging lamps with exposed lightning-style bulbs and flickering, wall-mounted lanterns that burned with steady, enchanted light. Tall wooden bookshelves stretched up to the ceiling, packed with books in a variety of languages, some so old their spines had long since faded into obscurity. A rolling ladder, which looked suspiciously like it belonged in a wizard’s tower, was affixed to the shelves, allowing access to the higher tomes.

The café portion occupied the left side of the shop, where mismatched tables and chairs were arranged in a way that felt both haphazard and deliberately cozy - like the owner had loved each individual chair and didn’t care if they matched. The tables themselves were a mix of antique wood and sleek brass fixtures, some inlaid with intricate alchemical symbols, others bearing scratches and ink stains from past customers. An old-fashioned espresso machine, steam-powered with delicate runes etched into its copper plating, hissed softly behind the counter, adding to the steampunk aesthetic.

The counter itself was a long, sturdy slab of dark mahogany, adorned with brass fittings and an ancient-looking cash register that clanked with an almost sentient resistance whenever Frieren rang up an order. A display case beside it showcased Stark’s latest batch of baked goods—ranging from impossibly perfect pastries to creations that looked like they had survived an alchemical experiment gone wrong. A small, hand-drawn sign next to the display read: Purchase at your own risk.

Upstairs, a narrow staircase led to Frieren and Fern’s living quarters. The second floor had a loft-style design, overlooking the shop below through an open railing. The space was sparsely decorated, with only the necessities—books, a simple kitchen, and a few chairs arranged around a fireplace that rarely saw use.

Between the endless books, and the ever-present smell of coffee, The Gilded Grimoire was many things—bookstore, café, hideout for the perpetual reader when the library closed—but above all else, it was Frieren’s. And no matter how much of a financial disaster the bookshop portion remained, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Yes, the bookshop was failing, but Frieren didn’t particularly care. It had been struggling for years, if not decades. Fewer and fewer people read elvish, let alone the half dozen ancient human languages which had declined over the years. Her customer base had started off as readers with an esoteric inclination. Fern deliberately bought more recent second-hand books, but the second-hand book trade was cut-throat at the best of times. 

However, the real reason the book store struggled was Frieren herself. She liked books—loved them, in fact—but selling them? That was a tedious obligation. She had set up The Gilded Grimoire under the pretense of running a bookstore, but she was far too selective about who could actually buy anything. In so many ways the store was Frieren’s personal collection in disguise. A customer might pick up a rare tome on magical theory, only for Frieren to tilt her head, scrutinize them, and say, "No. You wouldn’t appreciate it." before taking the book away.

Predictably, this had not helped business. Customers had an odd notion that bookstores were supposed to let their books go. Stark had jokingly suggested that Frieren ‘loan’ the books instead to trustworthy customers and she was still ruminating on that idea two years later. 

Fortunately, the coffee shop portion of the store was successful enough to keep their finances afloat. People didn’t understand Frieren’s taste in books or her possessiveness, but they did understand and appreciate good coffee. Frieren, who loved coffee almost as much as she loved books, made sure that her cafe stocked the finest coffee in the city.

Between the café and her… less public business dealings, Frieren could afford to keep things as they were. Fern, her capable (and occasionally exasperated) bookstore assistant, handled most of the store’s practical affairs (like the books, the customers, the finances, and the acquisition of new stock), while Stark worked in the kitchen—where his baking was a gamble between incredible and inedible. His talent was truly unique - which was why no other bakery would employ him. Given the same recipe on two different days, Stark could produce the finest, lightest pastry filled with subtle flavours or a dense, undercooked monstrosity which just about guaranteed indigestion. Worst of all - the pastry variations looked exactly the same, so there was no telling them apart until you ate one. 

Perhaps the real reason The Gilded Grimoire survived as long as it did was Frieren herself. Aside from being an ageless elf, she possessed a peculiar knack for making the perfect cup of coffee or tea variant for her customers. Granted, her customers were few in comparison to the dedicated coffee establishments, but they were all fiercely loyal to the Grimoire. If Frieren was behind the counter, you could be guaranteed that your cup of coffee would be ‘exactly’ what you needed. If you ordered your usual cappuccino, and Frieren gave you a mocha latte with extra cinnamon, your mood perked up, and your day was fabulous. During exam season, the students at the university in on the secret would boost the Grimoire’s sales as they sought the luck of a Frieren coffee. 

Stark made a decent brew too, but it wasn’t the same. 

It was a slow Tuesday when Himmel walked into the Grimoire . 

Fern was home sick, Stark was in the back baking, and the only sound in the café was the occasional clink of a spoon against ceramic. The air smelled faintly of roasted beans and flour, and a few customers lingered at tables, hunched over books or quietly sipping their drinks.

He browsed the books, curiosity drawing him to the large section on wildflowers and rare plants. The book was old, and many of its illustrations were illuminated. Looking for a price and not finding one, he looked for the store assistant - but the sale counter in the book store was empty. Frieren, her long hair tied up into two buns, was fussing with the large ornate coffee machine. Smiling a little, Himmel took the book with him, and approached the counter. 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” she murmured absently, concentrating on the cappuccino foam. His smile growing wider, Himmel leant on the tall counter, book in hand and asked, “How much?”

“One silver bit.”

Startled, he laughed, “For a book, that’s very…”

Cappuccino poured, Frieren glared at him. “One silver bit for a coffee. The books are…” she stared at him, paying attention for the first time. Himmel laughed again. “One silver is pricey for a coffee.” She shrugged, uncaring, her eyes on the book in his hand.

“That’s an illuminated copy of Graft’s Treatise on Rare Regional Flowers.” 

“I know, I read the title. How much is it?”

Expression unreadable, Frieren glanced at him, and then the book again. “Why do you want it?” Caught a little off guard but not offended, Himmel cocked a handsome eyebrow at her, and smiled warmly. “I am particularly fond of the Blue-Moon Weed and I’d like to try revive it. My grandmother kept some seeds in stock, and my new townhouse has an old greenhouse…”

Eyes flicking between him and the book, Frieren interrupted, “Blue-Moon weed is not a hothouse flower but…”

“It might germinate well enough to be transplanted. Graft agrees with you. Hence wanting the book.” His smile was genuine. She was delightful. 

Frieren studied him carefully, no tells on her face as to her thoughts, but her eyes kept darting to the book and then his face. She was the first elf he’d ever met, and they were supposed to be quite deliberate at times. Eventually, as another customer opened the door, Frieren sighed, “Five gold for the book - it is a rare copy. And you want a spice cappuccino.”

Himmel blinked. Five gold was a bit rich, and he stared at the book. It was beautiful and had gorgeous illustrations. He shrugged, “Ok, and no, I don’t want a cappuccino.”

Himmel had heard rumors of an odd little bookshop that served the best coffee in the city and his preferred drink of choice was a double espresso. “I’ll have an espresso, please. Two shots.”

Her golden eyes flickered up, considering. Then, without a word, she reached for a cup and started making him a cappuccino. Himmel watched her move—calm, deliberate, as if the world moved at a different pace around her. Deciding not to argue, Himmel pulled out his money pouch for the expensive book and coffee.

He tilted his head. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Frieren set the cup of coffee in front of him. “I don’t see the point.” The cappuccino smelled heavenly and sent a shive down his back. Its aromas brought back memories of his grandmother and sitting by her hearth, listening to tales of heroes and adventures. 

He smirked. “I’m Himmel, by the way.” He put down the requisite coins, for book and coffee. 

She didn’t respond, just nodded and took the money.

He sighed and took a sip of the coffee - anticipating a horrible milky concotion. To his surprise, it was incredible. The cappuccino was a beautifully balanced drink: the boldness of the espresso, the gentle sweetness of the milk, and the aromatic complexity of the spices coming together in perfect harmony. Served in a warm ceramic cup, the first sip was both comforting and invigorating, a moment of pure indulgence. He let out a satisfied hum before glancing at the display of pastries. They looked golden and perfect, a wide variety of delicate, melt-in-your mouth goodness. Several of the croissants remained, whereas none of the pain au chocolate had been bought. The sign indicating ‘Lemon Brioche Buns’ had no stock. 

“What’s up with the pain au chocolate?” he asked.

Frieren, who was wiping down the counter, barely glanced at them. “Stark made them.”

“...And that means?”

“They’re a gamble.”

Himmel chuckled, looking at her with amused curiosity. “Gamble of?”

Frieren blinked. “Sometimes they are brilliant - best in the city. Other days, you could use them for doorstops.”

Laughing for real now, Himmel sipped his wonderful coffee, and asked, “Just the pain au chocolate?” She shook her head, unsmiling. “Anything. One day his croissants are to die for, and the next they’ll kill you.”

“And you still sell them either way?” he faked mild-horror, and a small little smile twisted her lips. Straightening her apron which was covered in coffee-stains, Frieren shook her head. “If its edible, we still try to sell them. But if its going to result in the health inspector dropping by, we bin them.”

“And the croissants today?”

“Passable.”

Himmel raised his cappuccino at her and said, “Thanks - and for the book.” She nodded, and murmured, “Take care of it.”

The street outside was noisy and a stark contrast to the quiet, homey peace of the Grimoire. Himmel contemplated going back in, but Heiter was waiting for him, so he left with a promise to return as soon as he could.

Inside the cafe, Stark yelled from the kitchen, “Wait, did you actually sell a book, Frieren?”

Grimacing, and putting her elbows on the counter, and resting her face in her hands, she grumbled, “Yes, I did.”

Despite her natural reticence to ever part with a book, the sale had felt right. The book and blue-haired guy who smiled too much were aligned, and it had felt right to let it go with him. She just didn’t like it.

“Is it snowing?” Stark’s laughter echoed and she muttered, “No. Shut up.”

TBC

Chapter Text

Himmel tried a few of the other well-regarded coffee spots in the city in his search for the best espresso. After two rather disastrous experiences where the establishment clearly focused on ‘fashionable’ and sweet coffees with lots of milk, foam and flavoured honey, Heiter had recommended a rather pretentious cafe near the Palace. The ‘Royal Bean’’s prices had exceeded that of the Gilded Grimoire - amazingly - and had the right sort of coffee beans in stock. His double espresso had been good but hardly the best and perhaps not really worth the price. As his efforts to settle into the townhouse required visiting various quarters of the city, Himmel tried a few more coffee shops, with mixed results.

After ten days of mid to awful coffee, on a particularly brisk, chilly morning as autumn dipped towards winter, Himmel returned to the Grimoire. It was by far the quietest of the cafes, probably as it masqueraded as a bookshop, and the combination of the smell of old books and high quality coffee brewing was particularly wonderful, while the hiss and puff of the coffee machines added a gentle undertone to the murmur of customers, who were reading, the rustle of pages being turned a delightful accompaniment. 

The good lady of the establishment was behind the counter of the coffee shop, her long silver hair in low ponytails today, a fesh, as yet unsullied apron around her waist. She was concentrating on cleaning a brass pipe on the machine, her expression utterly focused on the task. Smiling to himself, Himmel threaded his way through the tables, idly noting that while there were not many customers, all the tables were full. 

“Good morning,” he smiled, and she murmured a reply. “Morning.” She did not look up. Resting his elbows on the counter, smile broad and genuine, he asked, “Would an espresso be in order today?” 

She barely shot him a look, a mere side glance of bright gold green eyes. “If you want.” Resisting the urge to chuckle, Himmel scanned the pastry display. It was fairly empty bar for yesterday’s offerings, glistening danishes. “No fresh pastries yet?” he asked. She shook her head, and from the kitchen, a series of clangs and clatters came, almost as if Baker Stark had waited for his cue. “Small mishap this morning with the ganache. So it's pain au chocolate instead of tarts.”

Intrigued, Himmel leant forward more, studying her delicate fingers as they expertly polished and cleaned the fitting. “I’ll have a double espresso then, with a pain au chocolate, please.” Paying more attention to him now, drawing close to the end of her task, she nodded, “An order of beans from Strahl came in yesterday, or there is still some dark roast from Vorig. Which would you like?”

Utterly delighted with this surprise, Himmel beamed at her. “Vorig? I’m amazed - they hardly ever sell outside of the northern lands.” Frieren shrugged, a brief nonchalance as if access to that rare market was nothing. “The dealer is an old friend. Vorig then?” Himmel nodded. He liked a good Strahl roast but was keen to try the rare Vorig. “Do they drum roast the beans?” 

“Of course,” she replied with a cute nod at him, hair bobbing with the motion. Frieren moved with quiet precision, reaching for the brass-handled grinder as Himmel watched. She didn’t shoo him away or direct him to take a table, just continued with the task. Pleased, Himmel stayed put, fascinated. 

She twisted the grinder’s handle in slow, steady rotations, the rhythmic motion as effortless as breathing. The freshly roasted beans cracked and broke down, releasing their deep, chocolatey aroma with hints of citrus and spice. The grind was fine but not powdery, each granule uniform—a sign of experience and instinct honed over time.

She tapped the grounds into the portafilter, leveling them with a practiced hand before pressing down with the tamper in one smooth motion. The pressure was exact—firm but not excessive, just enough to ensure an even extraction.

Locking the portafilter into place, Frieren flipped the lever on the gleaming, antique espresso machine, its brass fittings polished from years of use. The machine hissed softly as water heated to the precise temperature pushed through the grounds at just the right pressure.

A dark, amber stream began to pour, thick and steady, collecting in the small ceramic cup below. The crema bloomed instantly—a rich, golden layer, dense and velvety, a sign of a perfect extraction. Not too light, not too bitter. Just balanced.

She set the cup in front of Himmel without a word. He picked it up, examining the crema with a knowing smirk. He lifted the small ceramic cup, letting the rich, earthy aroma rise to meet him. It was deep and layered—dark chocolate and roasted hazelnuts at the forefront, with a bright hint of citrus, maybe orange zest, cutting through. Beneath that, something warm and subtle—a whisper of spice, like cinnamon or cardamom, barely there but adding depth.

He took a slow sip, letting the espresso coat his tongue. Smooth, bold, and perfectly balanced. The first notes were dark and velvety, a deep caramel sweetness that gave way to a gentle bitterness—not harsh, but complex, like cocoa with just the right amount of bite. The acidity was restrained but present, adding a vibrant liveliness that kept the espresso from feeling too heavy.

Then came the finish—a lingering warmth, slightly nutty with the faintest trace of spice, leaving behind a satisfying depth. No harsh aftertaste, just a clean, almost silky sensation that made him want another sip immediately.

He exhaled, setting the cup down with a quiet clink.

"Yeah," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "That’s the good stuff."

“One silver, please,” she said, an odd note in her voice. Looking up, Himmel met her eyes, her attention on him entirely. She looked… bemused. Like he was something more interesting than expected. “With pleasure, my good lady, with pleasure.” He put two silvers down and sighed, “Another, for when the pain au chocolate is ready.”

Frieren blinked, tilted her head slightly, but nodded, “Ok.” 

Himmel savoured the espresso but sipped it thoughtfully before it could cool too much. It really was perfect - the best in the city. He was about to ask how often she stocked Vorig beans when the as-yet unseen baker emerged. A tall, red-headed young man with bandages wrapped around his arms and hands bustled through the swinging doors, calling “Get ‘em while they are hot!” with an efficiency born of experience and not doubt a desire to escape. Stark stacked the pastries in the case and smiled at his boss. “Did you try them?” she asked.

He shook his head, “No time, have three more trays coming out.” And he bustled back into the kitchen. A long-suffering sigh emerged from Frieren, her eyes thin, and Himmel caught a mumbled “Coward. Utter coward. Maybe the ruined ganache will mean these are good.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Himmel noticed that the customers had all paused and were watching Frieren. Ah, they were waiting for an indication that these were edible. Laughing to himself, and before Frieren could prepare herself for the potential disaster of eating horrible pastry, Himmel sat up and said, “I’ll try one.”

Again, her full attention swung on him, and he felt a little dizzy. Her gaze was so… intense, beautiful but intense. “I did explain…”

“You did,” he reassured. “I assume I don’t have to pay for the first one?” This she seemed to ponder before nodding. “Definitely not. I usually try the first, or Fern if I can persuade her. Are you sure?”

Himmel nodded. He hadn’t done anything brave in weeks. He was happy to sacrifice his taste buds for a good cause. “I am.” Frieren nodded solemnly but was still uncertain given how hesitantly she took the pair of pastry tongs, and lifted a glistening, heavenly-smelling pain au chocolate out onto a delicate china plate. Unlike the coffee cups, the plates were a mishmash of eclectic china, ranging from delicate china with varied patterns to sturdier but still fine ceramic with pretty floral designs or stiff geometric ones. She placed the pastry on a delicate flowery-patterned plate, dusted it with fine powdered sugar and gently placed it before him with a novelty cat-patterned serviette. 

Watching her expression, unable to hide his smile, Himmel said, “Thanks. Here goes.” He picked up the pain au chocolate and smelled it. It was warm, chocolatey and smelled wonderful. The pastry crackled under his fingers. A collective hush fell over the cafe, all eyes on Himmel. He closed his eyes and took a bite. The crisp, golden crust of the pain au chocolat crackled slightly as Himmel took his first bite, a delicate shattering of layers that gave way to the soft, buttery interior. The contrast was immediate—the outer shell flaky and light, while the inside was tender, pillowy, and rich with butter.

Then came the chocolate.

Still slightly warm, the dark chocolate core melted luxuriously across his tongue, bold and smooth, with just the right balance of bitterness and sweetness. It wasn’t overly sugary—deep, complex cocoa notes bloomed alongside the toasted, nutty richness of the pastry itself. The layers held their structure, offering just enough chew and resistance to make each bite satisfying without feeling heavy.

The finish lingered—a trace of caramelized butter, a whisper of cocoa, and the undeniable urge to take another bite.

Himmel exhaled slowly, savoring.

"Gods," he muttered, glancing toward the kitchen. "That’s incredible."

Relief washed over Frieren’s face and she visibly sagged. “Thank goodness.” The words had barely left her lips and there was a line of eager customers at the counter. Himmel didn’t care. He ate the delectable, incredible pastry slowly, relishing each bite. When he looked down, another one waited on the plate, with his second espresso right beside it.

He was in heaven. He’d died and gone to heaven.

• & - & - & - 

“Is that him?” Fern leant forward from the small balcony of their apartment, which looked down into the shop. Beside her, covered a little in flour and smelling of warm chocolate, Stark nodded. “Yep, that’s the guy.”

Himmel sat on a stool at the counter, cradling his espresso cup with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics. He took slow, measured sips, his expression shifting between satisfaction and something dangerously close to bliss. Every so often, he’d glance toward Frieren as if waiting for an opportunity to pull her into conversation.

Frieren was busy. She moved through the space with her usual fluid efficiency, refilling a sugar jar, taking books out of potential customers' hands with a shake of her head, and taking orders from the few lingering customers. But Fern and Stark could see a pattern emerging—she was watching him.

Not in an obvious way. Not in any way that a casual observer would notice. But her gaze lingered just a fraction longer than necessary whenever she passed him at the counter. When she wiped down the counter, she faced his direction a little more than she needed to. Even as she moved away, her ears twitched slightly at the sound of his voice—like she was listening even when she wasn’t looking.

Himmel, for his part, seemed either completely unaware or completely self-assured in his place there. He occasionally threw a grin her way, something light and teasing, and Frieren, in her usual fashion, responded with little more than a blink before returning to her tasks.

Fern sighed. "She’s staring at him."

"Yeah," Stark agreed, rubbing the back of his neck, still dusted with flour. "Like a cat watching a bug but pretending not to care."

"Do you think she likes him?"

"She definitely likes him," Stark said, crossing his arms. "She just has no idea what to do about it."

Below them, Himmel leaned back in his chair, stretching slightly before knocking back the last sip of his espresso. As if on instinct, Frieren turned just in time to see him set the cup down.

Fern narrowed her eyes.

"She’s going to make another one, isn’t she?"

Stark smirked.

"Yep."

• & - & - & - 

“Another?” 

Himmel leant forward, smile board. “I’d love to say yes, but three is my limit. And I think I’m late for an appointment.”

Was that a brief look of disappointment? Frieren nodded, wiping the very clean counter again. “Ok.”

Digging deep to find the strength to leave, Himmel sighed, “Good Lady, please - tell me your name and I will whisper it in my dreams tonight as cups of heavenly espresso tantalise me with the promise of tomorrow.”

Frieren blinked. “Don’t be absurd. My name is Frieren and I am not a Lady.”

Swiftly, Himmel caught her hand but did not hold tight enough that she couldn’t pull away, and sighed, “Lady Frieren, you are a goddess - a coffee goddess and I cannot be constrained from…” 

Unsmiling, but did her eyes crinkle in amusement, Frieren pulled her hand away and said, “I’m glad you liked the coffee, but I believe you are late.” Laughing now, Himmel got off his stool, doffed an imaginary hat and swung an absent cloak before saying, “Then I, Himmel the Absurd, will bid you adieu, dear Lady. Until tomorrow.”

And with that, he left, a decided caffeine-induced bounce in his step. Frieren stared after him for a long moment before remembering she had other customers. “No, no, that book on the early history of the north is not for you. Hold on.”

Above, Fern grunted as Stark nudged her, “See?”

She did indeed ‘see’ and she studied her friend who was manhandling a book away from the Professore of Indefinite Studies and said, “I do indeed. I had better go help the Professor. He ordered that book.”

• & - & - & - 

TBC

Chapter Text

Time slipped past on feathered wings as impressive flocks of geese journeyed to the southlands in the skies overhead, and the leaves of the trees in the capital embraced hues of orange and red, before futilely attempting to follow the birds south, drifting down instead into gatherings of their fellows on the cobbled streets, to be crunched under foot, the vibrancy of summer green forgotten. A decided winter chill touched the air some mornings, before fading as the autumn sun clung to warmer days growing shorter. Nearly a year had passed since the end of the war and six months since Himmel had decided to join Heiter in the capital. 

Himmel had always assumed that life after war would be quieter - far less violent of course -  but he hadn't expected it to be this dull. His new job—a low-level clerk position in a government office attached to the military—was as entry-level as they came. Paperwork, filing, double-checking reports that had already been checked twice before. His superiors were polite but distant, the work mind-numbingly routine, and worst of all, there wasn’t even the pretense of a challenge. He wasn’t sure if they had placed him here to ease his transition back into civilian life or if they simply didn’t know what else to do with him. General Oberon had insisted that a bright future lay ahead of HImmel in the Capital and that the military needed clear, bright heads such as his. 

Eisen had signed on with a mercenary company, one that traveled across the kingdom hunting down rogue warlords and escorting high-risk convoys to the North and beyond. They had exchanged letters a few times, Eisen’s letters full of brief but vivid accounts of life on the road—dangerous, unpredictable, and demanding. The time delay between replies was growing as Eisen either travelled further north, or simply had less to say. Himmel had read his letters though with a quiet sort of longing, wondering if he’d made a mistake staying behind. He loved the open road, and meeting (and helping) people in the far-flung villages and towns. It had been the one aspect of the long-running war he’d enjoyed. 

But mercenary work had never quite suited him, no matter how much Eisen had tried to convince him otherwise. He wanted to do something with meaning. A hired gun or sword was one thing - and all too often the client who hired them may not be the sort Himmel himself would approve of. In any event, he’d seen his full of death and blooshed for a lifetime. Eisen, longer lived and still hurting after the death his family, needed to keep moving, lest the horrors and nightmares of his past find him too easily. 

If asked, Himmel would say that his ideal work would be something investigative, maybe. Something where he could use his wit and charm to glean information and prevent law-breaking, and hurt to innocents. The local constabulary was still an option, but murder and robbery were still too similar to war and bloodshed and his nights were all too frequently disturbed with memory-fueled nightmares to embrace that path just yet. Thus, until an opportunity presented itself, he was stuck stamping forms. At least he was in the right department for now - the Magical Defence Ministry - staffed by the military and veterans but falling under civil authority. Two centuries ago, magic in all its forms had been banned across the empire - a desperate effort to curtail the resurgence of demons. Right or wrong, the ban had worked, and of the central lands had been demon-trouble free for over a century. 

The bright spot in his increasingly routine and dull life was The Gilded Grimoire, which, despite being technically a bookstore, had the best coffee he’d ever tasted. The baked goods posed an interesting game and he was often the brave soul to test the first of Stark’s wares. Although the game resulted in some horrendous results, it was one he looked forward to.

And then there was Frieren. 

Naturally, when he had told about his find, the priest had immediately insisted on coming along at his first opportunity. "I have to see this place that’s made you so annoyingly smug about coffee," he had declared. His sly friend probably also wanted a chance to assess the mysterious owner.

Which was how Himmel found himself stepping through the café door once again, Heiter at his side, just as the scent of fresh espresso and something distinctly burnt drifted through the air.

The moment they entered, Frieren—who had been flipping idly through a large, ancient tome behind the counter in the book section —glanced up, eyes flickering over Himmel before fixing onto Heiter with immediate suspicion. Himmel nodded at the regulars in the coffee section, most of whom nodded back. He was later than his usual want, as Heiter frequently struggled to rise early after a night of drinking. For a priest of the Goddess, he seemed to lack a certain… decorum. 

The book section of The Gilded Grimoire was both a literary treasure trove and an organizational nightmare. Sunlight streamed through high, mullioned windows, catching dust motes that drifted lazily between haphazardly arranged wooden shelves. Some leaned slightly as if contemplating a slow and inevitable collapse. Others were sturdy but so overstuffed with books that the shelves bowed under the weight of knowledge, or, more accurately, Frieren’s stubborn refusal to part with a single volume.

Books spilled onto every available surface—piled on tables, tucked under chairs, even stacked in precarious towers on the floor, forming something between a labyrinth and an obstacle course. The ladder on brass rails gleamed invitingly against the highest shelves, though anyone who had seen Frieren use it knew it was less for function and more for dramatic effect - and perhaps a trap for adventurous buyers. Handwritten signs, many of them vague, cryptic, or outright unhelpful, were pinned to the shelves. "Histories of What May Have Happened" , one read. “ Medicinal remedies you probably shouldn’t try”, was one Himmel loved, but his favourite was “ Not actually magic books, because the last King was an idiot.”   Another simply said "No." in elegant script, though what it was forbidding was unclear.

Some books practically vibrated with ancient knowledge, their old leather bindings crackling softly in protest if handled too roughly. Others were mundane but deeply loved, their pages dog-eared and softened by time. The scent of aged paper, ink, and a faint trace of spiced coffee lingered in the air, an intoxicating blend that whispered of stories waiting to be read and magic waiting to be rediscovered. Whatever disorganisation prevailed, all of the books were stacked or shelved in a way ensuring their protection. There were even a few shelves with glass doors and archaic (but no doubt working) locks.

For the casual visitor, the book section was a charming curiosity. For anyone hoping to actually purchase something, it was a test of endurance, luck, and Frieren’s personal whims—and Heiter, blissfully unaware, was about to take that test. Heiter smiled pleasantly. "Ah, so you must be the owner." His smile was broad and warm. 

Behind the counter, Frieren didn’t respond, just narrowed her eyes slightly, as if assessing whether or not she needed to remove him from the premises. The counter for the bookstore was as tall as the coffee shop, but more ornate - carved dragons climbing the edges, their hides polished to a bronze sheen. Behind it was the banked fireplace and if you stood in just the right angle, you could see a coze reading nook, with a comfy pair of armchairs and a cute reading table. Obviously, the reading nook was not for customers. 

Unbothered by the cool welcome, Heiter turned his attention to the bookshelves. "Might as well grab something to read while I’m here, " he mused. Undeterred by the lack of apparent clear subject or topic, he strolled toward the nearest shelf and started browsing.

Frieren frowned, her eyes tracking him, as she idly made notations in an accounts book.

Himmel had seen her reluctant to sell books before, and she genuinely seemed bothered by certain customers who ‘browsed’ as if she suspected they intended some harm to the volumes. As Heiter drifted deeper into the labyrinth, she stepped out from behind the counter, moving with purposeful slowness, like a predator slipping into cover, having sighted prey. Himmel made his way to a table with a good view of the shop, foregoing the counter today so that he could sit with Heiter. The table was a warm, antique wooden affair, and the two chairs matched, high-backed armchairs designed to encourage a body to never leave and just drink coffee all day. 

From his vantage point, Himmel could see Heiter’s tall head as he ambled through the narrow shelves, but Frieren’s shorter frame was lost, her silver head only occasionally visible. Smiling to himself, Himmel leant back - enjoying the moment.  

Heiter, oblivious to his potential peril, slid a book from a tall shelf and examined the cover. "Hmm. ‘The Lost Histories of the Eastern Provinces.’ This looks interesting," he murmured to himself. He opened it, and paged through, exclamining slightly at the illustrations and edition date. He tucked it under his arm and continued to peer at the shelf for similar fellows. 

Behind him, Frieren’s entire expression soured. She approached, feet light on the carpet, but Heiter heard her and looked down, surprised. She folded her arms and stared at the book under his arm. Heiter raised an eyebrow in response. They stared at each other in absolute silence. Himmel could just see the stand-off through the shelves and sighed with a smile. "Oh dear."

Heiter tapped the book in his hand with a finger, "Problem, young lady?"

"That’s not for sale," Frieren said flatly, pointing at the one under his arm. Replacing the one in hand to the shielf, Heiter smiled, “"Then why is it on the shelf in a bookstore?"

"Decoration."

"It has a price sticker on it."

"Misprint."

Peering at the price, Heiter paled, “Goddess above, ten gold pieces. That is a misprint. How much is it truly?”

Frieren didn’t answer.

At this point, Fern emerged from the back room, rubbing her temples, and looking a little dusty. She noticed the standoff immediately and she rolled her eyes. Moving around the counter and making for the pair, she said firmly, "Oh, for heaven’s sake. Frieren, stop terrorising potential customers." An impressive force was dear Fern and Himmel hid his smile as she strode past her sulking employer, plucked a different copy from higher up on the shelf, and shoved it into Heiter’s hands. "Here. This one’s the same book, but she won’t cry about losing it."

Heiter examined the book, and smiled, entirely victorious. The price clearly suited him too. 

Frieren huffed in irritation and stalked off toward the coffee counter, foiled. Heiter turned to Fern and asked her about the other books, and Frieren’s shoulders shuddered in mock horror.

Himmel got up gracefully and made his way to the counter as Frieren settled herself behind with perhaps too much clatter and noise. Despite there being no sign requesting customers to place orders at the counter, the absence of wait staff and the general ‘ambience’ of the place just sort of led everyone up to the counter. Frieren glanced at him, her expression unreadable and she started to prepare some coffee, her movements brisk and precise. She ground the beans with practiced efficiency, the aroma rich and dark, tamped the grounds into the portafilter, and set the machine to brew.

"Double espresso," he reminded her. She was fairly consistent with his order, but last week had given him a wonderful latte of some sort to lift his mood. Himmel though was sure he wanted an espresso. 

Frieren made a noise that was either acknowledgment or dismissal.

The espresso poured in a steady, golden stream, the crema forming thick and velvety on top. But instead of serving it as-is, Frieren topped it with an equal portion of steamed milk before sliding it across the counter.

Himmel frowned at the cup. "This is a cortado."

"You need some balance," Frieren said simply, already turning away. He had been so dismissed to see the steamed milk anywhere near his espresso, Himmel had missed the brief softening of her expression and the way her gaze lingered on him for just a little too long - like he was an interesting tome in a lost ancient language. 

Sighing, Himmel glanced at her, but Frieren’s back was turned, as she tamped out the portafilter. Oh well. He picked up the cup, and took a hesitant sip. She hadn’t made a terrible coffee yet… Rich, smooth, just the right amount of sweetness cutting through the bitterness. He sighed in defeat. "Damn it, this is good."

He caught a glimpse of a pleased smile on her face in the polished bronze pipes, and that caught at his heart in a strange way. She was… pleased he liked it? Blinking a little, and sipping the cortado again, Himmel contemplated what to say - if anything. A sudden flare of light from the kitchen caught his attention.

"Uh," Stark’s voice echoed from the back, "the croissants are on fire." A second flash of firelight flared above and below the scruffy kitchen doors, and a tray clattered to the floor. 

Frieren didn’t even blink or look in the direction of the kitchen. "The fire extinguisher is under the counter."

"Yeah, I know. Just letting you know it’s happening." Stark did not sound distressed, more annoyed. Or… despondent. Like this was a regular occurrence, which it might be given his habitual bandages. 

A brief pause.

"Do you need help?" Himmel called, half rising to go lend aid and save the coffee shop if need be. For the owner of a very flammable book store, Freiren was surprisingly sanguine about a fire. She was helping a curious customer, brewing up a latte while they also peered into the kitchen. 

"Nah, I got it." Stark called, again sounding unphased, but the amount of noise was not reassuring. A whoosh and a clatter followed a large clang and then Stark coughed loudly. "All good!" 

Frieren, unimpressed, gestured to the pastry case, both to the new customer and HImmel. "The coffee cake and lemon drizzle cake survived." 

Unable to help himself, Himmel asked, “Any good?” Frieren looked at him, with those green eyes that flared with gold and blue like an ever-changing sky, and seemed to see into the very depths of his soul, and said, “If I had my way, we wouldn’t be selling them. But Fern said we’d get fat if we ate it all - again.” 

Himmel took a slice of each, watching as Heiter, now thoroughly pleased with his book, settled into a chair at their table. Unaware of the protocol, he shouted a little loudly, "A latte, please with extra foam - and do you have any of those sugar sprinkles?" Himmel frowned, his nose crunched in disgust - that sounded more like a dessert than a drink. 

He made his way to the table, balancing cortado and cake, and sat down, “You’re supposed to order at the counter, Heiter.” His friend shrugged, happily paging through his book. “Its a small place, I’m sure its ok.”

Casting a curious eye at the counter, Himmel wondered if Frieren would ignore Heiter’s request. But she seemed to be making some sort of latte, and after a few moments made her way over. However, what she placed in front of Heiter, and Himmel could only assume it was a mixture of pettiness and mischief, was a chai tea latte with zero sugar sprinkles. She walked away without a word, or waiting for a reaction. 

Distracted, Heiter picked it up and took a sip. Blinked. Took another. "Ah, not… what I ordered but oh my, that’s... surprisingly good."

Heiter looked at Himmel who was smiling at him, definitely not smirking, just smiling, and then back at the counter to the odd owner. “I’ve never met an elf before, Himmel, so I can’t comment if she is a typical example, but… she certainly is strange.”

“Agreed - strange with excellent taste in books and coffee.” 

Heiter nodded, “Oh yes, this volume is quite rare and I’m delighted to have found it - and she had two copies!” And with that, Himmel lost him to his book, but he didn’t mind. The office could wait, and the Grimoire was warm and cozy. The coffee cake was absolutely divine, and without asking, Frieren brought another cortado over. She handed it to Himmel, who beamed at her with thanks, and paused as he took it. She seemed poised to speak and then shrugged, and asked, “Is your - friend - going to be a frequent visitor?” Himmel’s smile widened, and Hieter remained oblivious. “Possibly, but its a little early for him, so I doubt it.”

She paused, face unreadable, but was it his imagination, but she did relax a little? “Good.” Again she seemed poised to speak but turned instead and walked away, steps as graceful as a dancers. From over her shoulder she waved and said quietly, “See you tomorrow.”

Heiter looked up to find a rather ridiculous grin on Himmel’s face. “What? What happened?” It took a long moment before Himmel answered, downplaying his smile. Why did his heart trip over itself and swoon at that wave? Why was he as pleased as a butterfly in the summer that she spoke to him?

“Himmel? Himmel? My friend, are you quite alright?”

“Quite fine, Heiter. Quite fine.” 

• & - & - & - 

TBC

Chapter Text

Himmel had fully expected the winter to be a long, lonely, depressing season. It was his first real winter after the war campaign. 

During the war, winter had meant hard marches, biting frost under armor, and nights curled beside dying fires with pain in his limbs and steel in his gut. There had been exhaustion, but never stillness. The enemy, both human and demon had thrived in the cold, while the King’s forces, even those from the Northern Lands had struggled in the magic-cursed frozen tundra. The worst nights of his life had been spent in that icy hell-scape and he’d been lucky to only lose a few toes to frost-bite. Many had lost far more. The nights had either been too quiet, a hush before battle. Or ripped asunder by the roar of an attack. Now, far from that place, living in peace, he had warmth and quiet—and it wasn’t the relief he thought it would be.

There were days when his mind played tricks, when the silence of his still rather empty home cracked louder than arrows, when his hand twitched for a sword that wasn’t there in response. He still woke some nights with his heart thudding like war drums, a phantom weight pressing on his chest. No one had a name for the way a soldier's spirit frayed at the edges after too many battles but Himmel could feel it. The long, creeping ache of a soul that had seen too much and didn’t know how to rest. 

In the very deepest depths of the night, in a city filled with living people, Himmel feared he was a ghost, a fraying spirit that didn’t quite know it was dead, and clung on to a feigned life. 

Every day though, the sun rose, pale and gold, dispelling some of the cold and Himmel decided to pretend at being alive - for one more day. 

Without any real, specific intent, Himmel found himself at The Gilded Grimoire just about once a day. Not always in the mornings, sometimes in the evenings, and randomly on the occasional Wednesday, at lunchtime. If magic was not banned and its practice a death-sentence, he may have wondered if the little not-really a bookshop had bewitched him. He left the office often, bundled up against a cold he could never shake, intending to go straight home, and would instead find himself standing outside, and yes, going in to the cafe-ala-bookstore. 

He tried not to think about it too much, but as he stepped into that warm, wonderful interior day after day, because it would generally be the first time, the only time, he’d actually feel warm that day. The chill of a boring, lackluster job and nightmare-chased nights dissipated as he crossed the threshold, as if unable to bear the heat of the beating heart of the cafe. 

Himmel knew when to fight and when it was wiser to save your strength, and in truth, the Grimoire was such a balm to his winter-haunted soul, he didn’t fight very hard at all, so he simply followed his heart and his feet, and visited the shop every day. 

Sometimes, he sat and read a book (Fern was trialling the loan-a-book approach much to Frieren’s subdued dismay. Her face took on a long-suffering, pained expression at each ‘loan’ but she said nothing.) Sometimes, Himmel watched the crowd of what he’d come to realise were an eclectic mix of students, artists, heroes, professors, and civil servants. They were a fascinating bunch and the on-and-off-again ‘almost romance’ between the bohemian flower seller and the staid, stoic blacksmith who occasionally fixed Stark’s temperamental ovens was almost as riveting as a royal play. 

In truth though, Himmel most often found himself chatting with the strange, beautiful, utterly bewitching Frieren. He hadn't expected Frieren to talk much and to be fair, she didn’t—not at first. But over time, his frequent visits had carved a small space for odd, wandering chats. One day they discussed the political structure of a long-dead kingdom, the next, whether or not raisins belonged in scones (Frieren: an adamant no). Once, she told him about an ancient city that had floated above the ocean before “sinking due to strategic incompetence.” He still wasn’t sure if she was joking.

The strange thing was, she never seemed to respond to him other than the odd eye-roll or brief twitch of the lips. Himmel wasn’t ‘actually’ flirting with her - but he was making his interest in her very plain. He smiled, laughed at her jokes, complimented her. Frieren blinked, murmured to herself, tilted her head and studied him like he was a strange blend of tea. Not precisely the reaction he was used to but she did listen. She answered. She never asked why he came every day, or why he stayed longer than he needed to, lingering over his espresso like it held answers. Frieren may not react to his charm like so many other women had, but she stayed - and talked.

Other eyes though, more experienced in the ways of Frieren than Himmel, noticed that she quietly and gradually, began to look up when the shop bell rang.

Fern noticed it first. She said nothing, eyes wide in amazement and then thinned in speculation. Stark who spent more time in the kitchen noticed far later but when he did, he walked past Fern and muttered, “She’s started pre-grinding beans when he’s close by.”

“And she finds an interesting plate - one of her ‘old’ ones,” she replied in a tone that Stark couldn’t interpret. 

They shared a look, and then Stark had to run because something was on fire - again - and Fern bit her lip contemplatively as she surreptitiously watched Frieren straighten the antique plate she’d selected and glance up in anticipation as the blue-haired warrior walked in. 

The winter lasted longer than usual - perhaps a lingering effect of the destructive demon magic used a year ago - a magic that almost blotted out the sun. Work had taken a turn for the better as his supervisor had mentioned an opening in the fairly new ‘Magical Enforcement’ department. It was a junior inspector role, but it would get him out in the city and countryside, tracing tips on the use of illegal magic. Himmel had written an application immediately and left the dreary office building with a skip in his step. 

He planned on meeting Heiter later for dinner and perhaps a drink, but as usual, his feet took him to the Grimoire rather than home. The shop was full, unusually so as he stepped in, and he actually had to push through a small crowd to reach the counter. 

Fern, her long hair glistening in the warm lamp light, was holding court in the book portion, her clear voice explaining the task at hand. Blinking a little, Himmel glanced at Frieren who was slumped, head in hands on the counter, muttering inaudibly to herself. The picture of gorgeous dejection.

“A shelf-reorganisation event?” Himmel murmured to her and she barely nodded but mumbled something plantively sad. “Fern insists we do it every couple of years. The shop actually makes a profit when we do this.”

Himmel smiled to himself, and then smiled to see his standard espresso waiting for him. Gently taking her hand, he squeezed it, while he sipped his coffee with the other. “I’m sure it’ll be ok and no one will want a book, Frieren.”

Her faint, “From your lips…” made him smother a laugh. She did not look up, and he held her hand a little tighter.

From the kitchen doorway, a flour-covered Stark noted that Frieren did not remove her hand from his.  

A few days later, on a crisp morning, Himmel arrived a little earlier than usual and found Fern standing outside the shop, bundled in her long coat, cheeks pink from the cold.

She greeted him with a polite smile but did not move. Intrigued, he stopped. “Himmel,” she said gently, “We need to talk.”

His heart stuttered. Was something wrong? Had Frieren decided to close the shop? Had the shelf-organisation gone so badly? Was there no coffee? 

He hadn’t had much interaction with Fern, really, as she generally stayed with the books. But he knew her to be direct and forthright. True to form, Fern took his hand, stared at him directly and said “Frieren doesn’t understand that you’re flirting with her.”

Himmel stared, heart pounding in earnest now. “I—I’m not—”

Fern gave him a look. Kind, patient, and utterly unimpressed. It was a very scary look. 

“You are. We can see it, Stark and I. But Frieren can’t - won't.” Himmel blinked at her and stammered, “Can’t? Won’t?”

Fern rolled her eyes a little, clearly exasperated with him and Frieren, but her smile and tone were gentle. “She’s an elf - they don’t really do romance. It’ll take her five decades to realise you’re interested, that you like her ‘that’ way and by then you will be old - or dead.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His face felt hot - was he blushing? 

“I know she’s difficult to read,” Fern went on, “but she does like your company. She pre-grinds beans for you. All those cute old plates you like - she choses them for you. That’s basically courtship, in her world.”

“I—I don’t know … what are you trying - what am I?” Himmel hadn’t felt this tongue-tied since he was an adolescent. 

“Be direct - she understands subtly, thrives on it in fact, but not with this stuff - emotions and relationships. Ask her out - be direct.”

Himmel blinked. “Direct? Straight out and ask her?”

“She’ll say no.”

“…Okay?”

“Then you’ll ask again. And the day after. Keep it kind but not as a joke. Be as sincere as you seem to be and keep asking.”

He swallowed, throat suddenly dry, heart racing like he was about to face an army of demons. “And if—if she says yes?”

Fern smiled, broad and delighted, a beauty all her own, “You drag her out of door on the spot. Before she overthinks it.”

Himmel didn’t go into the Grimoire that day. He went home - mind racing and abuzz with thoughts. Yet, despite his dark nights, he was not one given to over-thinking or cowardice and the next morning, he walked into the Grimoire , took his espresso (or whatever drink Frieren decided he actually needed), made conversation for a while and watched her. 

She seemed pleased he was there - in a Frieren way. His espresso had been waiting for him. The plate with a bright, glistening pastry on it had a small, blue flower motif on its border. Her eyes were bright, a wonderful green flecked gold. Pale, white blonde hair in the usual low ponytails. Apron neat and clean and she was looking at him. Studying him.

Himmel smiled, a curl of something in his heart. “Would you like to go to dinner tonight?”

She blinked at him and said, “Why would I eat dinner with you? You already come here every day.” And she started a long story about the roaming tree-herds of antiquity. 

The following day, his cappuccino was spicy, and the plate had blue swirls. “That dinner is still on offer.”

Her eyes were bright, confused, but laughing. 

“No, I have inventory.”

The following day his spiced, fluffy latte had a dark undertone he loved, and the plate had an odd elvish motif.

“So, dinner tonight?”

“Cleaning the espresso machine.”

For nearly two weeks his coffees (or teas randomly) were strange but delicious. Her excuses became more and more fanciful.

“I’m teaching a dance class.”

“Descaling Mrs Simmons' kettle.”

“Looking for a lost cat.”

“Avoiding places that sell meat.”

Rather than find her frustrating or irritating, Himmel’s heart swelled at each ridiculous answer, and his smile must have shown it. Frieren’s lips twitched more and more each day. They still talked, in fact, they talked more than before - about everything and nothing.

The double espresso waiting for him at the end of the second week was incredible - dark, rich, a delicious blend of citrus and woody notes. 

With a smile as light as his heart, Himmel grinned, “Dinner? Tonight at Forenz’s?”

A brief, pregnant silence.

“Fine. What time?”

In the kitchen, Stark dropped a heavy pot on his foot, and in the store, Fern fell off her ladder as she tried to shelve a book and eavesdrop. 

Frieren stared at him, her expression - shy.

Himmel grinned as broadly as the sun rising over an ice-blue lake and said, “6pm. Sharp.”

________________________________________________________________________

“There was another life that I might have had, but I am having this one.”

― Kazuo Ishiguro