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I struggle to get the door, my arms full of clean white mountain lilies. Taking special care not to drop one stalk, I wedge the tip of my boot under the brass handle, dislodge the heavy door by a few inches, and hurry to stick my foot in the resulting crack. The rest is smooth sailing from there. I draw power from my hips and kick the way wider open, and slip into Irifan’s office with my flowers and all before the door can fall back close.

“Hm?” Alerted by the unnatural noise, the Duchess of Orethgon looks up from the paperwork covering her broad desk and at me, her red-brown eyes rounded. “Zero? What’s going on?”

I wobble across the solemn stone hall to her desk, peer past the hill of blossoms, and answer,

“I, uh, brought you flowers.”

It takes Irifan a moment to process the unusual, unusually absurd, view.

“For me?” she asks to check, as if there could be another, hidden reason I hauled a cartful of weeds all the way to the castle. It’s not my lunch salad, that’s for sure.

Irifan quietly leaves her chair and circles around the desk to me, her expression that of open disbelief. Oh, I've got a reaction. Even got her to stand. I’d tempered my expectations, but it looks like Penlann’s hot tip wasn’t completely worthless. She appraises the pristinely glowing blossoms closer, from every angle, eyes glittering, her cheek tops a little red.

Well, they’re flowers. As if there could be any girl edgy enough to hate flowers.

The usual regal and composed Irifan is great, but a little flustered, confused Irifan is even better. It’s an ultra-rare treat.

“Why, what’s going on?” she mumbles. “Goodness, they’re so beautiful! Wait! I’ve got to find a vase for them! And water. Stay right there! Don’t move!”

Beautiful, just like you—I form the words with my mouth, too late to actually say them, as Irifan has already turned her back. She hurries to one of the stout bookshelves standing by the right side wall and goes rummaging through the cabinets close to the floor.

There’s no shortage of vases there. She proceeds to unload cups of different sizes and shapes, some made of clear glass or crystal, others coated with silver, platinum, or gold. They don’t look like a subscription bonus from Readers’ Digest. Many of the chalices have a little plaque attached, with a few brief lines engraved. For grand contributions to homeland defense. For life’s work at yadda-yadda, and other similarly highfalutin declarations.

Irifan picks a handful of containers she seems to think look nice and brings them over to the desk. She then starts to divide my vast stock of flora into handier bundles and fits them into the cups.

“Someone’s been busy,” I comment and nod at the trophies.

“Oh, these belong to my grandfather,” Irifan absentmindedly explains. “He served as an advisor to the previous King of Alberion. His efforts to promote diplomacy and public discourse helped avert a great many conflicts, and saved many people’s lives. Preventing war with the dwarves of Eylia was the crowning moment of his career. What seemed like an unavoidable disaster at first became one of the most profitable trade deals in the history of the Kingdom, without a single casualty, without one arrow fired, only by choosing the best words, with the best possible timing...My grandfather’s work is an inspiration to me and the Order. He showed our ideals are more than just a dream.”

“That’s…nice.”

Nothing smart I can say to that. Talking your way out of blowing up stuff—it’s a completely alien lifestyle for me.

But it sounds pretty cool. Having a famous grandpa. Having a family to be proud of. I can't even imagine.

“I’m not half the leader he was,” Irifan quietly adds, more to the flowers than me.

“How so?” I ask. “You’ve been doing just fine, by what I can tell.”

I may not know enough world leaders to do a statistical comparison, but Irifan is the reason I joined the Order, and that makes her pretty much the best boss there can be, in my books. But Irifan answers me without words, only a wry smile that seems to question if I’m really as clueless as I act, or merely pretending to be retarded.

She then flashes a most glamorous smile and changes the subject on the fly.

“But really! What are the flowers for? It’s not my birthday, is it?”

“No special reason,” I answer with an innocent shrug. “I just thought you might like them. They’re nice to have. Flowers. Flowers make people happy—or so I've been told. Lots of flowers should therefore equal lots of happiness. Well? Is it working? Are you experiencing such joy now you can’t even carry it around without leaving a hideous mess in the hallway?”

“I am,” Irifan assures me, already accustomed to my nonsense. “They’re lovely.”

Then, her smile quickly fades and she looks me in the eye.

“What have you broken this time, Zero?”

“Me?” Her unexpected question throws me for a loop. “Nothing? No, no, that’s not why! I haven’t done anything bad this week—this morning! That’s not why I got them!”

“Did you get into a fight again?” she ignores me and asks. “You were in town last night, weren't you? Be honest with me, Zero. Was anyone hurt? How bad was it? They’re going to bill us for the damages, aren’t they? How much is it this time?”

“No!” I deny, louder. “No, no, no! You’ve got it all wrong! I told you, that’s not it! There’s nothing’s wrong, nobody’s hurt, I patched the hole in the tavern ceiling, everything’s fine. I simply felt like picking up some flowers!”

She doesn’t look convinced. “Even if I ask Master Teresina?”

“Ask anybody! I swear it, on my honor, all I wanted was to make your—”

“—Then go get us some water from the well.”

A smile returns to Irifan’s lips as she interrupts me and lightly taps my cheek.

“A...”

“Hurry up, hero! You must be quick, before they wilt! The flowers are depending on you!”

A short while later, I’m down in the castle courtyard, wheeling up a bucket. Why didn’t I just conjure water with magic despite being a so-called magician? Because A) I don’t know how, and B) I desperately needed a timeout to get back on top of my game.

I lift the bucket out, set it down onto the yard, then lean over the brick edge of the well, and scream down into the hole at the top of my lungs,

“—GOD FUCKING DAMN IT, HOW CAN THIS BE SO HARD!?”

Almost nothing about that went as planned! I picked up no romantic vibes whatsoever!

Lord almighty, how did that fat-ass ever get married? His trump card tactic blows ass! What the hell? 100% success rate? I can take him to court for this, can’t I? It’s textbook fraud! Misleading advertisement! Not that I paid a dime for his counseling, but there was a lot of mental pain.

“…….”

It’s because I’m not a guy, isn’t it?

Irifan simply can’t see me that way, can she? A girl bringing another girl flowers—that’s just basic courtesy, isn’t it? That’s what they do. Normal human girls, that is. Too bad, I was home sick the day they handed out “normal”.

I squat in front of the bucket and stare at my reflection on the water’s surface. It’s so weird. If I met a copy of myself, I’d totally want to fuck her. In fact, I already do fuck myself, even without a clone. So what’s wrong? What exactly is missing? Is it the elephant? Is it really such a big deal? People can be creative. According to studies, eight out of ten women are at least bi-curious. The statistics are on my side! The real problem must be my approach. My tactics were flawed. Because I keep asking idiots for advice. Yeah, that must be it. Is there anyone in this godsforsaken valley, who knows anything about true love?

I suppose granny’s the one who knows Irifan best. But I don’t want to ask that old crone for any personal favors. She hates my guts. And if she actually cared enough to help me, she would have done it already, since she can read my mind.

Is there no one else?

Forced to admit not all problems have solutions, I slouch back to the boss’s office with the bucket of water. But I pause at the threshold and hesitate to go in.

Irifan sits on the edge of her desk, surrounded by the dazzling white lilies, gazing quietly out of the tall window in the back, waiting.

I’ve never seen a view better fit to be put in a painting. It’d be right at home in the Louvre. Unfortunately, I don’t have half a modicum of artistic talent. All I can do is stare hard and try to burn the vision to my retinas. Even if I grow old and demented and forget my name and where I put my house keys and diapers, I want to at least remember how she looked this day.

But while it’s a pretty scene, it’s also a bit sad, in this difficult-to-describe way.

No, more than just a bit.

The big window and the high ceiling emphasize how small and frail and alone she is. That’s how I always see Irifan. Quietly waiting, surrounded by cold, silent walls. She’s like a flower stuck in a pretty vase herself, when she should be out there, surrounded by life and noise. Bees and butterflies. Every time I see her like that, my chest is wrenched by a really, really bad feeling, like after eating one of granny’s scones.

It’s just not right.

I quietly walk over to her.

“Oh, thank you!” Irifan takes the bucket from me and fills a peaked jug from it. Happily humming, she begins to fill the trophy vases with water. “Was it heavy? I already began to wonder if you’d gotten lost on the way.”

“Hey,” I speak up, unable to keep quiet any longer. “Are you alright?”

“Huh?” Irifan’s hands pause and she gives me a puzzled look. “Why?”

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“I mean, everybody’s always away and only comes back once in a blue moon. It’s got to be rough, right? Being stuck here, just waiting.”

“Well, not much we can do about that,” Irifan tells me as she waters the flowers with steady, practiced motions. “As the mission coordinator, I need to stay here, to receive and relay messages, plan our future course, and respond to any changes in the situation. It’s up to those of us who stay to ensure everyone has a home to come back to. In the event a sudden emergency came up, I couldn’t well tell everybody, ‘oh, I’m afraid it’s outside office hours now, could you manage on your own till next Monday…?’”

“Maybe you should,” I say, even at the risk of sounding like a jerk. “Tell them that. Everyone deserves a bit of me time. A chance to do things you actually like. A real vacation.”

“Which reminds me,” she says, “when did you last have a proper vacation, Zero? Not just a free weekend, but real time off? You’ve been training twice as hard ever since Nikéa, don’t you think you’re pushing yourself a little too hard?”

“Uh-uh, no changing the subject!” I tell her. My life’s basically a nonstop vacation as it is. “This isn’t about me! When did you last take a Sunday off? Can you even remember?”

“What if I don’t want a day off?” Irifan defiantly counters. “What if I actually want to do this most of all?”

“I think you should still take it, even if you don’t want to.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a law like that.”

“If there wasn't before, I'll make one now.”

“Oh, how do you do, your majesty? Don’t you have a Kingdom to run?”

“I’ll become the damn demon lord, if that’s what it takes to make you take a break.”

“Then I’ll become the hero and defeat you,” Irifan proudly declares, not missing a beat.

“Sorry, but this isn’t a fight I can lose.” To begin with, you have no combat ability whatsoever.

“But I’ll win, anyway,” Irifan smugly declares, undaunted. “The hero always wins in the end. Don’t you know that?”

“Come on. That’s not fair…”

“I accept your concession!”

Smiling pleased, she turns back to the flowers.

I’m saying this for your sake, you know?

I may not have much in terms of life experience yet, but I already know this: if you keep up the same way, you’re not going to live long. You’ll get sick and die, and for what? For other people. For faceless strangers. I don’t think even the poor and oppressed out there would want Irifan to throw away her own life and happiness for them.

But I already know how Irifan would reply, if I were to tell her that. I know her way of thinking too well.

She would say it’s not really a job. It’s a calling.

That’s the other word for the kind of job that kills you.

The magic word that somehow makes any injustice okay.

You didn’t choose this life, this life chose you. All notions of costs and rewards cease to matter then. Which is why you can’t stop no matter how hard or painful it gets, even if you have to neglect your family and friends, and eat out every night—not at a real restaurant but at the van of Thai immigrants across the street. All you’re left for your efforts is a Banh mi on the way home, extra spicy. It’s not even real food, just a joke in the shape of bread, that’ll distract your howling stomach for a few hours of restless sleep. And it’s fine, because you’re pursuing your “calling”.

I get it.

Not really. But I understand it’s her choice.

So there’s no point in a newbie like me trying to talk her out of it. Free will and all that.

But, it that’s the case—if Irifan can’t stop what she’s doing, if she can’t let go of her job and live like a sane person, then that means somebody should carry the loneliness and misery with her. Through the good times and the bad.

I could be that someone.

I think I could.

I may be only a self-centered, narcissistic egomaniac, but I’m willing to compromise. I could give up what I want, if I could become her pillar of strength. Her personal Jesus. My motives may not be as pure as hers. Half of it might be less altruism and more undiluted carnal desire. But does having ulterior motives really matter, if both get something out of the deal? If it means she won't have to be alone anymore?

I open my mouth at the height of patriotic resolve. “Hey, Irifan.”

“Yes?”

The Duchess turns her bright gaze my way. Her unsuspecting look jams my tongue.

Irifan always so innocently assumes I have something deep and worthwhile to say, and not just random, incoherent rambling, no matter how many times I prove her wrong. That grown-up side of hers and the great expectations tend to give you the unsettling feeling that nothing you can say is ever going to be good enough.

Or, maybe the opposite: that being filtered through her hearing, even the banalities you utter will end up having more significance than you inteded, consequences you never saw coming. But standing on the precipice, you're warned by a sense of foreboding, a higher instinct of self-preservation, which has you ask yourself, am I really prepared to claim ownership of my own words?

Do I actually understand what I'm doing?

Isn’t it only rubbish for a four-year-old to claim she knows what she wants to do with her life?

No, it has to be now. I already got the ball rolling. I brought the flowers and all. I have to tell her.

“I...”

Shit, am I really saying it?

I can do it. Just say it. Spit it out.

It only stings once, and then maybe the rest of my life. No big deal. I power through the fear of failure and squeeze the words out, one by one.

“I just want you to know…”

“Yes…?”

“I want you to know that——that you’re not alone. Yeah. We’re right here for you, we’re all here for you. At least, you know, when we’re here. And if I can do anything at all for you, you only need to say the word.”

I tell her that and sound like we’re at an AA-meet and I’m the only one who didn’t relapse since the last session. Like I’m in high school, trying to ask Stacy to the prom with the adrenaline surge I got from winning a spelling bee. I throw the lamest tropes in her face, and can’t even bring myself to sound like I actually mean it.

That was not what I wanted to say! Not even close!

Aah, what is wrong with me!?

Do I have legitimate brain damage, or what?

“Huh…?” Irifan blinks her Bambi eyes at me, surprised for a moment.

Then, a mischievous glint is lit in her gaze. While I still reel over my own overwhelming stupidity, she suddenly reaches out, and pulls me into her arms.

“Really, what are you up to, you little devil!” she questions me while laughing and ruffles my hair with both hands. “Did Aunt Teresina put you up to this? Oh, by the Fey, everyone’s such a worrywart! I’m fine! Everything’s fine! And you’re ten years too early to show off in front of me, young lady! Tickle-tickle!”

Having made a mess of my hairdo, she digs her fingers in my sides. Oh no, not my one critical weakness!

“Gahaha! No tickling!” I beg. “Stop that! Don’t ruin my dignity! AaahahaHAHAHA! NO MORE, PLEASE! MERCY!”

I squirm and wriggle and try to escape, unable to breathe, my muscles uncontrollably spasming. But Irifan won't let me get away. She hugs me tightly from behind and continues to relentlessly grope me all over. I feel her heat and softness on my back. Her hot breaths and giggling fill my ears. Blood shoots up to my head. My knees begin to buckle. I'm in Heaven and Hell at once.

So close to what I want most, but still oh so far...

——KANG.

Then the sound of the door interrupts us.

Irifan lets go of me and recomposes herself. In the doorway stands the gloomy figure of Master Endol in his embroidered limeade robe. He greets us with an aloof look, though my image is never reflected in his eyes.

“Milady,” he tells Irifan. “The masters of the Order are ready to convene.”

“Ah, I’ll be there in a moment,” Irifan says and then turns back to me. “Excellent timing, Zero. Would you like to join us today? We have many important things to discuss and your insight could prove valuable.”

The brief glimmer of heartfelt joy I saw seconds ago is now gone from her gaze. Her eyes no longer view me as a friend, far less a marriage candidate, but only as a comrade-in-arms. A medium of impartial justice.

What can you do?

How could I ever be as important as the fate of our world?