Today, ah, today was one of those rare, precious days off, a gift from the gods of boredom or perhaps just a lapse in Fairy Tail's chaotic schedule. And I, Azra'il Weiss, ancient entity disguised as a grumpy teenager, intended to make the most of it. After our last, particularly gruelling mission in the picturesque, yet infernally complicated, town of Onibus – a town famous for its grand theatre, its cultural attractions of dubious taste, and, apparently, for its alarming shortage of functional unicorns – I deserved, with interest and inflation, every glorious, lazy second of tranquillity.
The town's annual ball was dangerously approaching, and the entire town was in a frenzy of preparations and gossip, but a small, insignificant problem arose to spoil the party: all the bloody unicorns in the town, those majestic, horned creatures apparently essential for pulling the festival's parade floats, had mysteriously vanished. Without those magnificent, probably very expensive beings to perform their glorified equine duties, the ball ran the serious, tragic risk of being cancelled, much to the despair of the organisers and the delight of cynics like myself.
I must say, with all sincerity and a healthy dose of residual trauma, that this missing unicorns mission seemed, at first glance, ridiculously simple, almost an insult to my vast, varied skills. "Find the unicorns, children, and earn a few quid for your tuck," they said. Little did they know. As soon as I dived headfirst into the search for the horned equines, I realised I was, in fact, wading through a logistical nightmare wrapped in a public relations disaster and coated with a generous layer of local incompetence.
Discovering the whereabouts of the blasted unicorns was a task so arduous, so frustrating, so surreal that an experienced cat would rather lick itself clean in a tank of hungry sharks than go through that again without completely losing its sanity. After endless days of meticulous investigation, involving interactions with strange citizens harbouring even stranger conspiracy theories, following trails of suspicious glitter, and, of course, some inevitable, entirely unnecessary scuffles with opportunistic bandits who, somehow, were also interested in the unicorns (probably for some bizarre ritual or to resell them on the mythical creatures black market), finally, to my immense relief, I managed to rescue the poor, traumatised unicorns from the filthy clutches of a group of obscure mages with dreadful costumes, who, apparently, had kidnapped them to use in some even more obscure ritual, likely involving sacrifices, demonic invocations, and a total lack of respect for the rights of magical animals.
The indescribable sense of relief upon seeing them gracefully trotting back into town, their manes shining and horns intact, was almost as good as the cash reward. But, honestly, I'd rather not think about that mission anymore. My nerves are still recovering. And I've developed a slight aversion to glitter.
Now, all that I, the reluctant, slightly traumatised heroine of the missing unicorns saga, wanted most in this vast, indifferent universe was simply to lie down, or rather, sprawl out like a satisfied amoeba, on this surprisingly comfortable sofa in the Fairy Hills sitting room.
Listening only to the soft, tranquil whisper of the wind coming through the ajar windows, carrying with it the sweet scent of garden flowers and the promise of a day without explosions or chases.
The delicious smell of freshly brewed herbal tea from some charitable soul hung in the air like a calming incense, and the almost palpable peace enveloping the place brought a deep, long-desired comfort I hadn't felt in… well, probably since the last time I managed to get a decent nap without being interrupted by some guild member trying to destroy the building.
I closed my eyes with a sigh of pure contentment, allowing the accumulated fatigue from the last few days of unicorn hunting and cultist fighting to slowly dissipate from my aching muscles, my overloaded mind.
The soft morning sunlight, already lazily filtering through the leaves of the garden trees, created dancing, luminous patterns on the polished wooden floor, the light-coloured walls of the room. It was the sort of perfect, almost unreal day where one could, with a little effort, much denial, temporarily forget existential problems, bloody battles, tedious responsibilities, the constant threat of some megalomaniac villain trying to conquer the world. An absolutely perfect day to simply… exist. And do absolutely nothing else.
But, as always happened in my peace-deprived, cursed life, tranquillity, that fleeting, treacherous lover, was painfully ephemeral. The sitting room door creaked open with a familiar, slightly irritating sound, and the crystal-clear, cheerful, unmistakable sound of Mirajane Strauss's melodious laughter echoed through the room, shattering the blessed silence like a crystal glass falling on a marble floor.
Her mere presence, even when not in her demonic form, brought with it a vibrant energy, a subtle electricity, a spark of pure, crystalline trouble that had the power to turn any ordinary, monotonous, lazy day into something… special. And usually more complicated. I saw her enter the room with that feline, elegant gait of hers, a confidence bordering on arrogance, her long, snow-white hair shining like silk in the sunlight streaming through the window, a teasing, enigmatic, perhaps slightly dangerous smile playing on her perfectly shaped lips.
"Azra'il, my dear, reclusive friend! What on earth are you doing here, hiding on this sofa like a hibernating squirrel, on such a gloriously sunny day?" she asked, with that mischievous, irresistible glint in her blue eyes, approaching with a grace that was both innocent, predatory.
Before I could even formulate a minimally witty, sarcastic reply, or simply a request for her to leave me in peace with my misery, my tea, Mirajane, with an audacity, a lack of respect for my personal space entirely characteristic of her, took an agile step and, with a surprisingly light movement for someone who could transform into a powerful demon, simply clambered onto my lap, settling there as if it were the most natural place in the world for her to be. Her sudden, unexpected proximity was… surprising.
And the subtle warmth emanating from her body, along with the sweet, floral perfume she always wore, caught me completely off guard, sending a strange, entirely unwanted shiver down my spine.
"I decided, on an impulse of pure generosity, boredom, to pop by Fairy Hills to see you. And, well," she continued, leaning conspiratorially closer, her voice now a soft, seductive whisper laden with ulterior motives that set my internal alarms frantically ringing, "I also very much wanted to talk to you about something… important. And perhaps a little… personal." Her gaze was intense, direct.
I felt my ancient heart, normally so calm, indifferent, give a stupid little leap in my chest as she, with disconcerting naturalness, began to subtly rub against my waist, like a fawning cat seeking affection, provoking a cascade of involuntary shivers throughout my body, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. "You know, Azra'il," Mirajane continued, her voice now even softer, huskier, dangerously seductive, as her slender, delicate fingers began to toy distractedly with a lock of my white hair, "I had a small, humiliating duel with our dear, pig-headed Erza recently." Her blue eyes, now fixed on mine with an almost hypnotic intensity, shone with a mixture of frustration, something else, something I couldn't quite decipher. "And, well, much to my eternal chagrin, many's secret delight, I lost… rather, publicly humiliatingly, I must admit."
She sighed dramatically, bringing her face even closer to mine, her lips dangerously near my ear. "I heard, through the ever-reliable, discreet guild gossip, about the special, incredibly effective training you did with her, with our Titania-on-the-rise. And, to be perfectly honest, I'm dying of curiosity… perhaps a tiny bit of envy. I want to know, Azra'il, if you, with your vast wisdom, unorthodox methods, can also help me improve. I desperately need something more than just brute force, demonic transformations to beat that irritating redhead. And you, my dear, mysterious friend, seem to have exactly the knowledge, skills I need."
Whilst Mirajane continued to rub provocatively against my lap, with a calculated innocence that was anything but, the mere physical proximity, the subtle but constant contact of her body against mine began to awaken an entirely unwanted, deeply embarrassing, biologically inevitable reaction in my adolescent body, full of confused hormones.
I could feel, with growing horror, internal panic, a slight but unmistakable tension forming in my nether regions, a warm, throbbing sensation that made me uncomfortable, anxious, terribly aware of my own, inconvenient… anatomy.
The air in the room, previously so tranquil, scented with herbal tea, was now suddenly charged with an electric tension, a palpable expectation, a frankly alarming amount of teenage pheromones. And the explosive combination of her overwhelming presence, her direct words, the way she moved with that feline, provocative grace on my lap left me, for the first time in many ages, completely, utterly speechless for a moment. I just stared at her, probably with an expression of absolute astonishment, a slight touch of panic in my eyes.
"Mirajane…" I began, my voice emerging a little huskier, more hesitant than I would have liked, as I desperately tried to maintain control of the situation and, more importantly, of my own treacherous body's reactions.
"Please, Azra'il," she insisted with an almost childlike urgency in her voice, pressing herself even closer against me, her blue eyes shining with a plea that was almost impossible to resist. "I want, more than anything, to learn from you. I want to get stronger, more agile, cleverer… more… everything. So I can protect my siblings. So I can beat Erza. And perhaps… perhaps to impress you a little too." The last part was spoken in an almost inaudible whisper, accompanied by a shy smile, a look that made me feel an even more intense warmth spread across my cheeks.
Despite all my desperate attempts to maintain control, to appear cold, distant, indifferent as usual, I absolutely could not ignore the slight but unmistakable, terribly embarrassing swelling beginning to form in my nether regions, causing growing discomfort, an anxiety bordering on panic. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. I hated, with all my ancient might, the damned, unpredictable hormones of puberty. If that albino, incredibly cunning demoness continued with her subtle provocations, those looks laden with ulterior motives, especially, if she continued to rub herself in that torturous, delightful way on my lap, it would become more, more difficult, if not entirely impossible, to hide my small but significant 'little problem' between my legs. And that, definitively, would not be good at all. For either of us.
The intensity of her gaze, the way she moved with that feline, provocative grace on my lap, the unexpected vulnerability in her voice made it all the harder to resist. The irrational desire to help her, to teach her, perhaps even… to tease her a little more, mixed dangerously with the pressing need to maintain control, not to yield to those strange, uncomfortable sensations coursing through my body. It was a challenge.
A delightful, terribly dangerous challenge. "Alright, Mirajane. Alright," I finally managed to say, my voice a little more trembling, hoarse than I would care to admit. "I'll help you. I'll train you. But," I added quickly, trying to regain some composure, some personal space, "you'll have to get off me first. Immediately. Or the training will begin in a… slightly different way than you imagine." I tried to sound threatening, but probably sounded more like an embarrassed teenager.
Mirajane's smile, upon hearing my words, lit up her face like the morning sun, and the pure, crystalline joy in her eyes was absolutely contagious. And dangerous. "I can't wait, Azra'il! You won't regret it, I promise! I'll be your best student!"
As she, finally, much to my immense relief, gracefully dismounted from my lap, the subtle electricity her presence, physical contact had left behind still pulsed on my skin, in my veins. That day off, which I had so lovingly planned to be just a moment of pure, absolute rest, laziness, contemplation of nothingness, was, as always happened in my life, transforming into something much, much bigger, much more complicated, to my growing horror, secret excitement, considerably more problematic.
The youth, vitality of this new body of mine brought with it an intensity of emotions, sensations, …desires, that I, the ancient, cynical soul, disliked having to deal with in the slightest. It was tiring. And confusing.
I had, throughout my countless, varied existences, a vast, rich experience in all sorts of relationships, from strategic political alliances to passionate romances that shook empires. This, theoretically, taught me to navigate complicated, potentially dangerous emotional waters with a certain dexterity. But, to be completely, painfully honest, in all my many, diverse lives, I had never, ever known how to deal very well with the raw, irrational, frequently embarrassing force of treacherous hormones that damned puberty insisted on throwing my way with each new incarnation. It was a cosmic joke in bad taste.
The way Mirajane looked at me now, with that glint of pure, crystalline expectation, an admiration bordering on adoration in her blue eyes, made my normally so cold, calculating mind fill with entirely unwanted, inappropriate, dangerously pleasurable thoughts. I knew, with desperate certainty, I needed to maintain composure, maintain control, maintain my facade of cynical indifference. (Azra'il, you old, perverted ancient entity! Control yourself! If you continue to have these impure, inappropriate thoughts about your new, innocent apprentice, I swear I will personally drag you off to train on some icy, isolated mountain, eating only roots, meditating on the impermanence of the flesh, until you become a functional, asexual, utterly boring adult!) I mentally scolded myself, with almost religious fervour.
"Right then, Mirajane. Since you're so eager to begin, let's prepare for your… new training regimen," I said, trying to keep my tone of voice as neutral, professional, disinterested as possible, though my heart was still beating a little faster than normal. Deep down, way deep down, where my cold logic, ancient cynicism rarely managed to reach, I wondered, with a mixture of dread, morbid curiosity, if I could truly resist the constant temptation to let myself be carried away by this new, exciting, entirely inappropriate wave of sensations, desires.
Desire, I knew from personal experience, was an incredibly good, addictive, powerful feeling… but at the same time, especially in a young, inexperienced body full of overflowing vitality, it was also terribly, delightfully frightening.
"Certainly, Azra'il-sensei! I'm ready for anything!" Mirajane replied with a radiant smile, a determination that almost made me smile back. Almost. Her animation was, indeed, contagious. Contagious like a particularly irritating plague, but still, contagious. And, to my growing horror, secret, masochistic amusement, also incredibly unsettling. I really, really wanted only, solely to help her become stronger, find her own, glorious path, who knows, give Erza a memorable pasting now and then, just to keep things interesting. That's all. Definitely. Nothing more.
----------------(*)----------------
Whilst we wandered through the bustling, noisy, surprisingly colourful streets of Magnolia, on a shopping expedition I hoped would be quick and painless (a vain hope, obviously), the afternoon sun, with its irritating insistence, shone high, strong in the cloudless blue sky, reflecting with an almost offensive enthusiasm the vibrant energy, apparently contagious joy of the city.
The delicious, tempting smell of fresh, greasy, probably rather unhealthy food from the numerous, noisy street stalls, the cheerful, constant sound of loud laughter, animated conversations from carefree passers-by, the lively, out-of-tune, entirely inappropriate music escaping from crowded taverns filled the air with a cacophony of life.
But my mind, despite all this irritating, sensorily overwhelming distraction, was, to my surprise, slight concern, surprisingly, almost obsessively focused on the arduous, potentially disastrous mission ahead: transforming the adorable but occasionally rather unstable Mirajane Strauss into an even more formidable demonic warrior, hopefully, a little less prone to random outbursts of rage. And, of course, the secondary, but no less important objective, was to survive the whole process without causing any international diplomatic incidents, any accidental cosmic-scale explosions, or, worse still, without having to socially interact with too many people.
"Mirajane, my dear, enthusiastic, now officially designated apprentice of calamities," I began, with the patience of a saint who has long lost faith in humanity, as we skilfully, with the grace of an inebriated ninja, rounded a particularly crowded corner, avoiding by a split second a potentially fatal collision with a runaway fruit cart, piloted by a vendor with a look of sheer panic. "Before we venture into the wilderness, likely full of giant insects, a total absence of decent lavatories, and begin your arduous, glorious, certainly very painful power training, we need, with an urgency bordering on desperation, to adequately prepare ourselves for our small but significant survival expedition. I want you, my dear, with your newfound, surprising good taste in equipment, your innate, probably dangerous demonic practicality, to help me choose some basic, essential, if possible, idiot-proof gear for our camp. We are, for your information, probable delight, going to be spending a few long, potentially tedious weeks out of town, in a more… shall we say, isolated, remote location conducive to the kind of intensive, secret, possibly illegal training I have in mind for you."
She looked at me with growing, ill-disguised curiosity, her large, expressive blue eyes shining with a dangerous mixture of almost palpable childlike excitement, a subtle but noticeable hint of apprehension. "Really, Azra'il? Camping in the forest for weeks on end? Just the two of us? That… that will be absolutely, utterly incredible! And, I must admit, a tiny bit frightening too! But mostly incredible! What exactly should we bring? I've never been camping before! Unless you count that time Elfman tried to build a den in the woods near Fairy Hills and nearly set the whole woods on fire." Her excitement was almost… contagious. Almost.
"The bare basics, my dear, inexperienced nature lover. No unnecessary luxuries or items that weigh more than you do," I replied with the air of an experienced, jaded adventurer who has slept in places worse than a dragon's stomach. I watched her with an amused, perhaps slightly condescending smile as she absorbed my every word with the attention, seriousness of an exemplary student about to take a final exam. "And, before you, in your innocence, enthusiasm, start asking why all the mystery, isolation, potential for mosquito bites, the specific, carefully selected location I have in mind for our little, intensive training retreat is of fundamental strategic importance for a very simple, scientific reason. The air quality there, my young lady, is incredibly, wonderfully pure, almost untouched by pollution, human stupidity. And, most importantly, the concentration of pure, potent Ethernano in that region's atmosphere is much, much more abundant, considerably cleaner, significantly more… shall we say, 'potent', less likely to be contaminated with the second-rate magic, badly-cast spells we usually find in these overpopulated, polluted urban areas full of incompetent mages. And that, my dear, promising Mirajane," I concluded with an air of profound wisdom, a touch of mystery, "will make a gigantic, noticeable, perhaps even slightly painful difference to your progress, the development of your magical control, who knows, your ability not to accidentally blow things up."
The simple but tempting idea of camping in the wild, untamed forest, of getting away from the constant hustle, deafening noise of the city, perhaps, just perhaps, encountering some interesting, rare, possibly edible magical creatures, seemed to exert an almost irresistible, entirely childlike fascination on the usually so troublesome, sophisticated Mirajane.
I could see, with a clarity that was almost amusing, the genuine, pure, almost childlike excitement grow, shine in her blue eyes with every new, carefully crafted piece of information I provided about our future wilderness paradise.
As we headed with firm, decisive, perhaps slightly too hurried steps towards the best, most well-stocked, probably most expensive adventure equipment shop in all of Magnolia, I, with my vast experience in urban navigation, my encyclopaedic knowledge of all the city's dark alleys, suspicious lanes – knowledge acquired, of course, through my frequent, nocturnal, entirely 'recreational' urban explorations in search of… local culture – led her with a safety, efficiency bordering on the supernatural through a narrow, slightly dark passage, smelling suspiciously of mouldy cheese, conveniently hidden between two old stone and wood houses that seemed to hold within their thick, dusty walls the silent stories, unconfessable secrets, probably the ghosts of many, many past generations of Magnolia residents.
It was a secret, very useful shortcut I often used to avoid crowds, gossiping old ladies, an occasional, overly enthusiastic guild member.
Finally, after a few more minutes of hurried walking, skilfully dodging some particularly grumpy, clearly hostile-intentioned street cats, ignoring a few curious, suspicious glances from passers-by, we reached our coveted, hopefully well-stocked destination: an old shop, with a dark wooden facade, slightly worn by time, weather, a rusty, crooked, artistically hung metal sign above the entrance door, swinging gently, with a melancholic creak in the soft afternoon breeze, announcing in large, faded, somewhat ominous letters 'The Tired Rucksacker – Quality Gear for All Your Adventures (and Likely Misadventures)' .
The characteristic, strong, unmistakable smell of tanned leather, polished cedarwood, lamp oil, ancient dust, a subtle but persistent hint of dried herbs with dubious magical properties, cheap, probably expired healing potions invaded our senses as soon as we pushed open the heavy wooden door, which creaked like a ghost with a sore throat, entered the surprisingly well-lit, cosy establishment, crammed to the ceiling with all sorts of useful, useless merchandise.
The old, dark wooden shelves, reaching from floor to high, dusty ceiling, groaning under the weight of their load, were literally, chaotically filled with every imaginable, unimaginable type of adventure, survival, probably medieval-torture-disguised-as-camping-utensils equipment.
There were waxed canvas tents of all sizes, shapes, dubious colours, from small, claustrophobic one-person ones to enormous, palatial ones that could house a small army of gnomes. Reinforced leather rucksacks, with innumerable pockets, secret compartments, shiny buckles, looking as if designed to carry the weight of the world. Plaited ropes of strong hemp, giant spider silk, other exotic, probably illegal magical materials, promising to withstand any weather, escape attempt.
And, of course, a truly impressive, almost overwhelming variety of cast-iron pans weighing a ton, bent pewter cutlery of questionable design, dented metal canteens with stories to tell, innumerable other camping utensils that looked handmade by some skilled hermit craftsman, with a deep love for outdoor life, a clear disdain for modern conveniences. It was, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, a paradise for experienced adventurers, aspiring heroes with a lot of money to spend. Or, for the more cynical, minimalist like myself, a hell for compulsive hoarders, lovers of shiny, useless things.
"Right then, my dear, now probably option-overwhelmed Mirajane. Let's try to keep focused, start with our future, humble temporary dwellings," I suggested with an air of forced practicality, trying to ignore the glint of avarice in her eyes as she spotted a set of particularly stylish throwing knives. I pulled her with a light but firm touch on her arm towards a particularly impressive, chaotic, crammed section of tent options of every imaginable kind, for every dubious taste.
"We fundamentally need something relatively easy, quick to set up, even for two talented mages with little, no practical experience in wild camping, a clear tendency to lose instructions. Something light enough to carry on our delicate backs for long distances without too much swearing, tears, threats of mutiny. And, most importantly, my dear, something that effectively, comfortably protects us from the relentless elements, giant, hungry, probably poisonous forest insects, any curious, nocturnal, sharp-toothed, insatiably hungry creature that might, by some chance of fate, sheer bad luck, decide to pay us a surprise, unwelcome visit during the night." Safety first. Or, at least, second, right after comfort.
Mirajane, a glint of adventurous enthusiasm in her blue eyes, a newfound determination to become a professional camper, began to examine all available tents with a critical eye, an air of expertise.
After much deliberation, a few pokes at the fabrics, some technical questions for the sleepy shopkeeper observing us with monumental boredom, she finally settled on a sturdy canvas tent, medium-sized, with a simple but functional design, an earthy moss-green tone that, I had to admit, would blend very well with the forest landscape, offering natural, discreet, potentially useful camouflage should we need to hide from something… or someone. "What do you think of this one, Azra'il? It looks quite sturdy, spacious enough for both of us, our many complaints, the shopkeeper swore it's leak-proof, goblin-proof!" Her choice was surprisingly sensible.
"Perfect! An excellent, very shrewd choice, my young, surprisingly practical apprentice professional camper! We'll take this one, before you decide we need one with a veranda, a king-sized bed," I replied with a smile of genuine approval, appreciating her contagious enthusiasm, good taste in survival gear, newfound skill in negotiating with sleepy shopkeepers. The tent, indeed, had a solid, clever construction, reinforced seams, seemed ideal for facing the diverse, unpredictable, probably very uncomfortable weather conditions we might encounter in the wild, untamed forest during the upcoming, long weeks of intense training.
After securing our future, humble temporary dwelling, our only likely refuge against nature's cruel elements, wildlife dangers, we proceeded, a new, growing shopping list in hand, to the equally chaotic, crammed section of adventure clothing, vestments. With a critical, practical, perhaps slightly frivolous eye on my part, the enthusiastic help of Mirajane, who seemed to be immensely enjoying this sudden immersion into the world of 'chic camping', we chose a few changes of clothes made from light, breathable, quick-drying, surprisingly durable fabrics, in neutral, discreet, strategically camouflageable shades of dark green, earth brown, stone grey, the occasional, daring touch of 'tactical black'. They would be appropriate, versatile pieces for long, exhausting forest hikes, intense, sweaty combat training.
I made sure, with an insistence that might have seemed a little paranoid, excessive to her, but was born of many, painful past experiences, that we predominantly chose colours that would involve less clothes washing.
"Now, my dear, hungry apprentice, for the most important, most crucial, undoubtedly most delicious, eagerly awaited part of all our shopping: the sacred, indispensable provisions," I said with a renewed glint in my eyes, a discreet but audible rumble in my stomach, as we headed with decidedly more hurried steps, growing salivation towards the shop's food area. The place was a veritable paradise for any hungry adventurer, anyone with a good palate, where innumerable, colourful ceramic jars with airtight lids, large, rustic fabric sacks full of grains, pulses, diverse, varied vacuum-sealed packets of all sorts of dehydrated delicacies were carefully, artistically, very appetisingly arranged on tall, sturdy, pleasantly fragrant light wood shelves.
"We fundamentally need something that will last for a good, long time without spoiling, going mouldy, developing a hostile personality of its own. Something relatively easy, quick, practical to prepare on an improvised campfire, even in the rain or under attack by rabid squirrels. And, if possible, my dear, something that tastes minimally decent, palatable, above all, won't give us fatal, agonizing, terribly inconvenient food poisoning in the middle of nowhere." Survival was important, but good taste too.
Mirajane, with a renewed enthusiasm only the prospect of food could awaken in her, an surprising air of someone who truly understands nutrition, menu planning for dangerous expeditions, began to choose with a critical eye, impressive confidence a few different types of quick-cooking whole grains, a small but varied selection of dried, aromatic, probably magical herbs for seasoning, invigorating teas, some generous packets of sweet dried fruit, crunchy energy nuts. Her nimble, delicate, surprisingly efficient hands moved with an almost hypnotic speed, grace, confidence amongst the innumerable, tempting items available on the shelves.
"All this here, Azra'il, looks great, delicious, very, very nutritious! Perfect for keeping us strong, full of energy during training!" she exclaimed with a satisfied smile. "And what do you think, my wise master, of also taking some of these tempting, apparently homemade honey, ginger biscuits? They look absolutely divine! And, as you yourself said with such wisdom, experience, one can never, ever have too many tasty, crunchy, comforting snacks for those inevitable moments of pure despair, profound boredom… or just a sudden, uncontrollable urge to eat something sweet." She winked at me with a mischievous, complicit, utterly irresistible smile.
"An excellent, very wise, incredibly prescient idea, my young, talented, now officially named private expedition nutritionist," I agreed with an amused smile, genuine approval, a sudden craving for ginger biscuits. She was learning fast. Too fast, perhaps. Together, with a few, civilised, heated discussions about the undeniable, obvious superiority of intense dark chocolate over bland, childish milk chocolate (a discussion I, of course, won with logical, irrefutable arguments), we assembled, with surprising efficiency, almost telepathic teamwork, a small but respectable, nutritionally balanced, most importantly, deliciously promising stock of supplies that, hopefully, if rationed with minimal common sense, self-control (which was asking a lot, in my case), would keep us well-fed, sufficiently energised, hopefully, in good spirits, less prone to acts of cannibalism during our long, isolated, potentially very tedious stay in the wild, danger-filled forest.
After completely filling our arms, our new, sturdy travel rucksacks, a few hastily bought sturdy fabric bags with all our newly acquired, essential, perhaps slightly excessive survival, comfort, gluttony items, we finally headed, with an air of tired triumph, a slight concern about the weight of our luggage, to the shop's small, dusty till.
There, a kindly old gentleman with a white beard, small, bright eyes that looked as if they had witnessed countless adventures, misadventures over many decades, a gentle, toothless smile full of quiet wisdom, greeted us with a slow, respectful nod. Whilst we waited patiently, with growing anxiety in the small, single queue of the establishment, I couldn't help but notice, with a mixture of amusement, a pang of something dangerously resembling… affection, the way Mirajane's genuine, pure, almost childlike excitement was absolutely, utterly contagious.
Her large, expressive blue eyes shone with an almost feverish anticipation, like a child's on Christmas Eve, she chattered animatedly, in conspiratorial whispers, about all the incredible, exciting, perhaps slightly dangerous things we would do, learn, discover together in the forest. It was almost… cute. In a slightly alarming, unsettling, entirely out of my usual emotional spectrum way. I urgently needed more tea. Or less Mirajane. Probably both.
With everything duly, to my surprise, correctly paid for, carefully packed, organised into our new, sturdy, now considerably heavier travel rucksacks, we finally left the welcoming, well-stocked 'The Tired Rucksacker' shop, headed with firm, decisive, perhaps slightly slower steps due to the extra weight, towards the exit of Magnolia city, leaving behind the noise, confusion, the promise of a good dinner.
The day, though already considerably advanced, the sun beginning to lazily tilt towards the horizon, was still, for both of us, only just beginning. And I knew, with an almost palpable certainty, a cynical resignation, a small but persistent pang of amused apprehension, perhaps a little morbid curiosity, that our small, improvised, potentially disastrous 'intensive training retreat for teenage demonesses with power control issues' in the wild forest would, inevitably, be marked by many, many moments of intense learning (mostly for her), surprising, perhaps painful discovery (probably for me), inevitable, perhaps hilarious growth (hopefully for both), almost certainly, by some unexpected, hilariously disastrous, potentially dangerous situations that would make great stories to tell back at the guild. If we survived, of course. But, hey, what would my long, tedious existence be without a little controlled chaos, some teenage drama, the constant, invigorating possibility of being eaten alive by a giant, two-headed, hungry bear with a terrible sense of humour? It would be, frankly, an unbearable bore.