Chapter 378: Blood, Sweat, But Never Tears

Ophelia never went out much.That’s not to say she was a hermit or anything. She just liked staying indoors for long periods of time. Usually in the homes of aristocrats who didn’t know she was there. 

Long before Duke Valence had cleverly bribed her with promises of annoying the fae, she’d already visited Aquina Castle on multiple occasions, whistling while nudging portraits, tipping over vases and occasionally groaning into an echoing corridor just to make him certain that the place was haunted. 

The reason was simple.

She thought it was funny. 

… Plus nobody bothered her while she was burgling.

Going outside was a hassle. Buying things even more so. She was popular. And that meant as far as everyone was concerned, she was rich. Which she wasn’t. 

She owned her own cottage with a pond, true. But while nobody had a cottage with a pond quite as nice as hers, it definitely didn’t put her in the same tier as the people whose manors and castles she visited. 

In fact, she didn’t really have much in the way of crowns at all. Mostly since she didn’t need any. But that at least officially made her poor.

Despite this, she couldn’t walk down a market street without vendors practically lobbing stuff at her.

As she now discovered, this also included quaint meadows in the middle of nowhere.

Ophelia shifted half an inch. 

It was enough for the towering stack of things she neither needed nor asked for to teeter precariously in her arms. 

First it’d been a tea cup. Then it was a tea pot. 

And then it was everything else 

Even the wealthiest travellers only possessed the smallest of bottomless pouches. But this elderly lady had something better. And bigger.

A bottomless suitcase … and all inside of it was being flung towards Ophelia’s direction.

Mortar and pestles. Rolls of parchment. A basket of eggs. A portable clay oven pot. Sewing needles. Mixing bowls. A shovel. Sheets of fabric. Porcelain vases. Bags of sugar. Fruit knives. Balls of thread. Bottles of ink. A lyre. 

Leaning slightly down, the elderly lady went through the handsome walnut suitcase tucked away beneath her wall of parasols. A haze of colour was sent to her side as each item, knick-knack or ingredient found itself atop the growing pile in Ophelia’s arms.

Until … it all came to a stop.

The bundle of stuff rose past Ophelia’s head like a wobbling steeple. The lyre balanced precariously, as fragile as a quill on the edge of a fingernail.

When it ceased to move, silence came as her reward. 

But not for long.

“Yeaaaaaaaaaahhhh!!!!!”

A cry of joy erupted from the watching audience.

All around her, broad smiles and whooping cheers sounded as a semi-circle of pilgrims raised their fists in synchronised relief. 

Those who’d come seeking the Wandering Guest’s wisdom were no longer tutting at Ophelia for hogging the supposed fae’s time. Instead, they were her steadfast allies along with those who’d slowly returned, their fear of a wayward cane pushed to one side as they celebrated one of their own.

The only visitor who hadn’t yet left with an aching knee.

Such was the strength of the exhilaration that the pile of stuff threatened to flounder. An experience more stressful for those watching than Ophelia herself. 

In fact, she found this fun.

Even among elves, she was gifted with enough natural dexterity that she could probably juggle the pile on her head. A feat likely to impress everybody except the one who’d caused it.

Suddenly, the suitcase snapped to a close. 

The elderly lady resumed her unbending posture, before making her way back to the small table. 

Now bereft of the tea set that’d been transferred to Ophelia’s arms, she sat down and neatly clasped her hands on her lap, the cane resting innocently to the side once again.

“I have a single question for you, Snow Dancer,” she said briskly. “When presenting yourself before a princess, what is the correct etiquette?”

Ophelia did her best to peer around the haphazard pile.

“To not yawn,” she replied confidently, having read as much as two sentences on the matter.

“Incorrect.”

“What? Really?”

“To not yawn is to wear an appalling expression. Your cheeks would clamp up. Such a dire expression would turn any princess’s head. That you do not want. As one seeking their favour, you are but a dot on a schedule which can be easily removed. You do not demand a princess’s attention. You earn it. To do otherwise is both unwise and uncouth.” 

“... Soooo I should yawn? Tonsils and everything?”

“No. But if the choice presents itself, then know that a yawn is one of the more forgivable sins. Few things happen at a royal court which do not instil boredom. Regardless, the correct etiquette is to be invisible. To be there when required and air the next. If you wish to associate with a princess, you must therefore be useful. Are you useful, Snow Dancer?”

Ophelia nodded at once.

The elderly lady frowned. And so Ophelia slowly shook her head instead.

“Exactly. You are not. A princess doesn’t need to look further than her many knights to find someone capable of swinging a sword. But if you believe yourself to be more than this, then I shall offer an opportunity to prove it, providing my guidance along the way. Should you pass my evaluation, you shall be fit to trouble a princess.” 

Ophelia believed her right away.

After all, nobody became a wise old lady sitting before a waterfall if they weren’t willing to back their own credentials.

“Okay, I can be useful! … What do you want? Tea?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Great! You sit right there and I’ll pour you some. Using the same tea pot you just gave me.” 

“I’ve no desire for that tea. It was so bitter I could see my daughter’s reflection upon it. You may discard it and replace it with something more refreshing. Peppermint, perhaps. Freshly picked.”

“No problem! I’ll just go and find–”

“You may also create a light nibble to go along with it. A classical mille-feuille vanille fraise will do. Additionally, please demonstrate your tactfulness by drafting a letter rejecting the 2nd son of a duke rumoured to be the offspring of a 3rd mistress. Compose a lyrical poem with use of the lyre based on the ill-fated engagement of Lilia the Red to Olfus the Orange. And display your handiwork by crafting a cushion to replace my own, showing the entire process of cutting, sewing, stuffing and finishing.”

The elderly lady paused, allowing her demands to linger along with the open mouths of all to hear her.

“... Can you do this?” she asked, her tone making it clear she expected little in answer.

Ophelia blinked.

It was a daunting list. 

Tea making, baking, letter writing, songwriting and cushion making were all skills which needed countless hours to master in order to reach a standard fit to impress a princess.

That’s why–

“Easy.”

If Ophelia had sleeves, she’d be rolling them up. 

After all, she was more than the most normal elf in the world.

She was an A-rank elven sword saint. And that meant she was constantly bored. As a consequence, she now had so many hobbies related to arts and crafts that finding something she’d never done before was a challenge in itself. 

“... Okay! Do you want it in that order?”

“No. I want it all at the same time. The only guarantee regarding a princess and her whims is that they do not come with completion dates. They must be fulfilled both promptly and simultaneously.” 

Ophelia nodded.

Then, she enthusiastically dropped everything in her arms. 

Expensive pottery, baking equipment, sewing tools and writing utensils immediately formed a chaotic pile for her to sort through. Several bits and pieces rolled to the side. The elderly lady made no comment. Yet.

“I don’t see any peppermint,” she said, flicking through for any wayward leaves.

“There’s a patch of high quality leaves growing in the nearby woodlands. You can find them amidst the brambles, vines and exploding corpse flowers.”

“Got it! Feathers for the cushions?”

“A cockatrice nest atop the sheer vertical cliffs overlooking this valley. There should be a plentiful amount of its feathers. Pray it does not return from its hunt while you’re collecting them.” 

It was all Ophelia needed to know.

She gave a simple point to her friendly ducks to remain where they were. 

… And then off she went.

As casually as a young girl doing her household chores, Ophelia skipped into the nearby woodlands, passing through bush and bramble as she avoided the exploding corpse flowers which self-immolated whenever a passing flick of her new dress brushed against them. 

After collecting the nicest smelling peppermint, she duly went upwards, latching herself onto the base of the nearest cliff before climbing with all the skill of a seasoned cat burglar. 

Ignoring the wind batting the hair against her eyes, she reached a precipice so high that all the world was nothing more than a haze of clouds. A dive into a messy cockatrice nest later, she bundled an armful of feathers into a tidy roll before climbing down again. 

She hopped onto a plateau halfway down, skipping the rest of the way down in such a way that if she were anyone else, a shop worker in a fancy atelier would be fainting over the certain scuffs to her glittery new shoes.

Instead … Ophelia did it with little more than a flick of her hair, returning without a single blemish.

She was met by wild acclaim.

Not by the elderly lady, who sat like a portrait whose eyes were trained on her every motion. 

Instead, the applause came from all her audience, their hollering loud amidst the scenes of them trading crowns and taking bets.

Ophelia didn’t see why.

The outcome was already decided.

“Shadows step from silver glass. A thousand fractures amidst a single truth … Snow Helix Form, 7th Stance … [Mirror Reflection].”

With a confident smile, she put all of her survival skills on display as she proceeded to do everything.

All at the same time. 

In a flurry of rushing movement, Ophelia the Snow Dancer became a blur of productivity. 

Her arms whisked together ingredients into a mixing bowl while a mirror image of herself simultaneously measured, cut, stuffed and sewed together a soft cushion. A quill scribbled against a sheet of parchment in elegant handwriting while another plucked the strings of a lyre as the words to a poem she’d already written in the back of her mind came to fruition. 

She was a tornado of motion. And through it all–a pot of peppermint tea steamed upon a small flame conjured using twigs and leaves.

“... Done!”

Betraying only a single drop of sweat after using what was definitely not something she designed to use against a princess and not for whisking together cake, Ophelia presented her work.

Upon the small table was a mille-feuille vanille fraise conveniently baked in a fraction of the time it normally would require by virtue of a magical pot. A cushion soft enough to instantly fall asleep on. A letter that was tactful as defined by Ophelia. And a cup of peppermint tea so fresh it tickled the nose. 

She smiled as she readied a lyre in her arms.

“Go ahead,” she said. “You can start with any–”

“Oversteeped. Begin again.”

The elderly lady only made it as far as glancing at the cup of peppermint tea.

Ophelia nodded … all the while waiting for the rest of the comments. 

“Oh yeah. That’s my fault. I should have done that all the way at the very end. And the rest?”

“There is no rest. You must begin again. Not simply with the tea. But everything.” 

Ophelia stared … as did the perfectly plump cushion and the well made cake.

“But shouldn’t you try the rest? They might be amazing.”

“They are not. If the first step is insufficient, then why sample the rest? If the scent of the tea leaves is enough to leave a poor impression, then that will bleed into what remains. Do not suggest that the standards of princesses are so low as to allow imperfections. Therefore, you must begin again.”

The elderly lady leaned forwards. A hint of a dark smile played at her lips.

“... Unless you’ve no desire to. A cliff only becomes taller each time it’s climbed. And from my experience, exploding corpse flowers only become more aggravated with each disturbance. If that’s that case, I suggest you move aside so that–”

“Hm hmm hmh mm hm ♪.”

Leaving a maidenly humming behind her, Ophelia dropped the lyre and skipped back towards the forest inhabited by exploding plant monsters. And also the clifftop with a live cockatrice nest. Again.

A short time later–

“[Mirror Reflection].”

Ophelia was a blur of movement. 

Now with slightly more than a single bead of sweat upon her, she repeated the steps she’d previously taken, now with an added impetus on the tea as she ensured it was brewed only in the final moments. 

This time, there was no outright rejection.

The elderly lady carefully examined the fragrance of the peppermint tea as it was presented to her alongside the table now doubled up with items.

Then, she raised it to her lips.

“Too weak,” she said simply. “... Begin again.”

Ophelia stared.

And then she went, repeating the process another time.

“The base of the mille-feuille is overly crumbly. Begin again.”

And another time.

“The letter is too direct. You must insult the addressee, not his entire bloodline. Begin again.” 

And another time.

“The poem requires another stanza. The rhyming couplets must be closer. Begin again.”

And another time.

“The cushion is needlessly soft. All I feel are my own bones. Begin again.”

And another time.

Even if it was a hairline fault in a strawberry she wasn’t even responsible for, the complaints continued without end … as did the sweat upon Ophelia’s brow as she climbed a cliff, ventured into a forest and abused one of her most taxing techniques.

As she worked, her efforts were punctuated only by the occasional comment. A reminder that there was no shame in abandoning this folly. 

Indeed.

Nobody would blame her for quitting. 

As the Snow Dancer, she had important matters to attend to other than perfecting a mille-feuille she’d only tried once before and was just working off memory.

But Ophelia had only one purpose in life.

There was a reason why she’d left her comfortable cottage behind. 

Why, despite all the time she’d spent being as unbeholden to responsibility as a spring breeze, that she was now more focused than any unreasonable challenge could thwart.

What it was … she could not remember.

And so it was that this day, a legend would be created.

A tale told amidst dying hearths and flickering candles by mothers to children, barkeepers to customers, farmers to strangers. That here in the Duchy of Triese, an elven maiden defied all calls of sanity and showed her will to survive.

Again and again, she continued even as the sweat weighed her down along with the aching of her muscles.

Until eventually–

“Haah … haaah … haaa.”

She waited as she played the last note of her borrowed lyre.

Long gone was the bright daylight greeting her efforts. 

As dusk painted the horizon, her silhouette burned beneath the setting sun. A marvel of dauntless inflexibility, undying willpower and a fire which burned brighter than any twilight sky. 

Only one thing matched it.

The shadows brought forth by the cliffs were punctuated by an endless sea of candles lit in silent vigil.

The crowd which had begun out of curiosity had swelled as news of the insane elven maiden reached every corner of Triese. 

Now they all watched, their hearts upon sleeves as the elderly lady sat imposingly, a statue of judgement, her brows dented in premonition of what was to come. 

There was no sound of cheers. No optimism. 

Only silent prayer and the clinking of coins as a donation tray was set up in Ophelia’s benefit.

“... Acceptable.” 

And then … there came an answer.

A simple, almost kind response.

Silence and disbelief filled the quiet air. Somewhere, a shopkeeper sighed in relief. A cockatrice nodded in approval. A princess shivered.

And then–

“Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!”

Led by Ophelia the Snow Dancer, the cries of joy resounded so loudly that even a Grand Duchess in her white tower could take note.

There had been blood and sweat … but no tears. For even as her silver bangs was now a darkened blob against her sweaty forehead and her fingers continually spasmed from her delicate sewing work, she had continued to maintain her dignity.

Ophelia had triumphed.

If only.

“Just acceptable,” said the elderly lady with a nod. “But a passing mark by me is a passing mark by any princess. My congratulations.”

Ophelia wore a drunken smile. Which was weird. She definitely hadn’t put any alcohol in that peppermint tea. Even though she wanted to.

“Great! … I can’t remember why I was doing this, but I’m happy I did!”

“You did it in order to earn the right to approach a princess. In which case, there remains one final evaluation you must pass. But you needn't worry. This one you should pass with ease.”

“Mmh?” Ophelia simply continued to smile as she enjoyed eating one of the many delicious looking cakes on the table in front of her. She had no idea who made them. But they were really good. “Whaff evalfuation?”

The elderly lady returned her smile.

She picked up her walking cane.

“It is time for a dance.”