The heavy, salty air of Hargeon's port, with a slight hint of fish that had seen better days, hung over us like a damp blanket, the kind your grandmother insists is cosy but in reality just makes you sweat in places you didn't even know could.
The strong smell of fresh fish under the scorching morning sun, generously mixed with the persistent brine, promised a glorious dehydration, the kind that makes you see mirages of oases with iced lemonade, if we didn't find some protective shade, and fast.
There we were, the three 'bright young hopes' of the Fairy Tail Guild, ready to embark on another potentially lethal and certainly poorly paid adventure: me, Azra'il Weiss, trying with all my ancestral might not to melt into a puddle of boredom and impatience under that infernal heat, maintaining a facade of casual elegance, like an ice sculpture feigning indifference in the middle of an active volcano.
Beside me, the valiant Erza Scarlet, whose silver armour, which she insisted on wearing even under a sun hot enough to fry an egg on the pavement, had probably already reached boiling point internally and was stewing the poor girl in her own sweat. And, of course, the ever-impeccable Mirajane Strauss, the albino demoness who, by some dark pact with underworld fashion entities or through sheer illusion magic, managed to look absurdly stunning, fresh, and completely composed even under a stone-cracking sun and a level of humidity that would make a frog complain. It was irritating. Profoundly irritating.
Perched lazily on my shoulder, like a blue parrot with an excess of fur and an unhealthy passion for fish, stubbornly refusing to get down despite the suffocating heat and my increasingly less subtle murderous glares, was the most illustrious Happy, my strategic 'partner', my future emergency pillow, and, at that specific moment, an efficient and entirely unwanted generator of extra heat. Just what I didn't need to complete my picture of morning misery.
[The choice of a partner with natural thermal insulation was truly brilliant for an exam on a tropical island, Azra'il. Your strategic planning ability is, as always, impeccable,] Eos commented in my mind, with that sarcastic tone I had learned to appreciate as a form of auditory masochism.
(Shut it, Eos. At least he doesn't complain as much as you,) I retorted mentally, as I discreetly tried to move a sweaty strand of hair that insisted on sticking to my forehead.
Natsu Dragneel, Erza's designated (or unlucky, depending on your point of view) partner for this endeavour, was already visibly, comically sweaty, his shocking pink hair, normally so spiky and defiant, now looking like an old, abandoned cotton candy in a state of total liquefaction. He fanned his face frantically with his hands, as if that would magically create a polar breeze.
"What in the blazes is this heat in Hargeon?! Is it some kind of spell to cook us alive?!" he grumbled, panting and with an expression of genuine suffering. "Someone, please, tell the sun I'm already literally made of fire, I don't need any unfair competition, much less a constant reminder of my own, flaming existence!"
Ah, the sweet, sweet irony, my dear, overheated Salamander. Your title is the Fire Dragon Slayer, and here you are, suffering from a heat that would make a desert lizard look for air conditioning. His logic was, as always, a work of art of the purest, most delicious, incomprehensible absurdity.
Elfman Strauss, the muscular lad with a surprisingly soft heart, who had been designated as his sister Mirajane's partner, was bravely trying, with an expression of forced stoicism, not to look like a muscle pudding about to completely fall apart under the relentless sun.
Sweat poured in streams down his red face and his enormous arms, while he cast frequent, worried glances at his older sister, probably more focused on ensuring she, with all her paleness and elegance, didn't spontaneously combust or melt like an expensive candle, than on his own, growing thermal misery. I foresee a collective sunstroke soon. And my bets remain firmly on the pink matchstick head as the first to fall.
While we waited, with a patience we clearly did not possess, for the call to finally board that rusty floating tub with a suspicious smell of rotten fish that they dared call a ship to Tenrou Island, my mind, ever so helpful in torturing me with memories of boredom and unnecessary effort, revisited the much-acclaimed, supposedly productive 'intensive training week' we had had in Magnolia.
In theory, a brilliant idea from Master Makarov, it was supposed to have strengthened the teamwork between the candidates and their respective partners, honed our skills, and prepared us for the unknown challenges of the sacred island. In theory.
In practice, at least for me, it was a glorious, monumental, utterly predictable waste of precious time that could have, and should have, been much better spent on nobler, more enriching activities, such as strategic, long-duration naps, the in-depth reading of ancient grimoires on how to curse your enemies with a deadly, incurable boredom, or simply the philosophical contemplation of the futility of existence.
In the specific case of the dynamic, highly flammable duo of Erza and Natsu, I imagine, with a mixture of pity and sadistic amusement, that the training in Magnolia, even with the harsh winter and the knee-deep snow we had there, must have been a true, noisy symphony of uncontrolled fire explosions (which, at least, I imagine, helped to warm the freezing environment a little), shrill, desperate screams (his, of pain and frustration; hers, of pure, crystalline frustration and a growing desire to strangle him), armours in urgent, frequent need of repair, and the occasional, entirely inevitable fire on some poor, innocent training dummy that had done nothing to deserve such a cruel fate.
For Mira and Elfman, the training week must have been, predominantly, Mira coolly, elegantly demonstrating her overwhelming demonic power, with a frigid, superior smile on her lips, while poor Elfman, clumsily, desperately tried not to turn into a muscle-popsicle, not to be hit by some stray spell from his sister, and, mainly, not to do anything that would irritate her, provoking the release of her full Satan Soul form. A healthy, balanced family dynamic, no doubt.
As for my case… well, in my case, the traditional concept of 'partner helping the candidate to prepare' was, shall we say, artistically, creatively, entirely intentionally inverted for my maximum thermal comfort, minimal physical effort, and a considerable increase in my personal entertainment.
I, Azra'il Weiss, ancient entity with a vast, useless knowledge of how to exploit the naive goodwill (and almost morbid passion for fish) of small, adorable, easily manipulated winged creatures, spent most of that cold, tedious 'training' week in Magnolia strategically, comfortably positioned under a thick, fluffy blanket, near the guild's crackling fireplace.
With a steaming cup of hibiscus tea with raspberry, mint, and a hint of something that made my senses sharper (courtesy of some new, naive, easily impressed recruit I convinced of the vital importance of proper hydration with exotic teas for superior-level mages like myself), and a particularly interesting book on ancient, creative curses with hilarious side effects, I supervised, with professional detachment, scientific pleasure, a touch of well-intentioned sadism, the 'rigorous physical development and the extreme cold resistance enhancement' of my dedicated, hardworking, now likely permanently traumatised partner.
Yes, my dear, non-existent witnesses, I trained Happy. While the other candidates suffered through exhausting training and their equally exhausted partners, I, with my superior intelligence, aversion to unnecessary physical effort, delegated. And kept myself warm. It was a win-win situation. For me, at least.
With a carefully calibrated mixture of logical persuasion (veiled, highly detailed threats of confiscating all his precious, well-guarded stock of fresh fish and generously donating it to the street cats of Magnolia), astute psychological manipulation (dramatic appeals to his noble desire to be useful and indispensable to his 'dear, beloved Natsu, who would surely desperately need a strong, resilient aerial partner who wouldn't turn into an ice cube at the first sign of snow'), and a truly obscene, almost illegal amount of fresh, juicy, warm fish as a reward for each small goal achieved, I, with a pride that barely fit in my ancient chest, managed to transform the normally lazy, rather cowardly, clearly cold-averse blue cat into a true, impressive high-performance flying machine, capable of facing gales and carrying extra weight.
The training, designed by me with an undeniable touch of sadistic genius, a clear, urgent need to keep warm, a dash of existential boredom, consisted of a series of rigorous, highly scientific exercises, such as: aerodynamic weightlifting in adverse weather conditions (read: carrying rocks of various sizes – and, occasionally, my snacks and my teacup – against the cold, biting Magnolia winter wind), high-speed, surgical-precision evasive manoeuvres (with me, of course, comfortably carried by him like an elegant, well-wrapped sack of potatoes, offering occasional, 'constructive' sarcastic comments on his flying technique as he desperately dodged snowballs strategically thrown by my telekinesis), and, my favourite, most effective character-building exercise, 'psychological resistance to cruel taunts and demoralising comments about looking like a blue ice lolly pathetically trying to lift a sleeping elephant'. It was a complete training. And very amusing. For me.
At first, I must admit, little, dramatic Happy wanted to give up several times a day, claiming with tears in his eyes 'extreme muscle fatigue induced by inhuman cold, imminent, almost certain risk of terminal frostbite to his delicate, precious wings, and a deep, uncontrollable desire to get under the covers with a bowl of warm milk'. Adorable. And utterly predictable.
[Intrinsic cold resistance level of Exceed specimen: Disappointingly, comically low. Cuteness level as an evasion, emotional manipulation tactic: Surprisingly, irritatingly high, but, for your luck, entirely ineffective against your calculated coldness, your heart of ice, your total lack of scruples, Azra'il,] Eos commented in my mind, with a tone that was a mixture of scientific analysis, pure sadistic amusement, probably revelling in the scene of a small blue cat with wings desperately trying to negotiate its working conditions, its survival under sub-zero temperatures with an ancient entity who has seen empires freeze.
[I recommend, to optimise training results, minimise grumbling, increasing the dose of warm, roasted fish as a motivational lure, or, if that fails, resorting to more… shall we say, warm, persuasive methods of convincing. Such as the subtle, veiled threat of having to sleep outside the guild, in the middle of the blizzard, without a blanket, without fish.]
(Don't worry about the sordid details, Eos. I have my infallible methods of persuasion. And they usually involve a strategic combination of emotional blackmail and tasty rewards,) I thought, with a confident, perhaps slightly cruel smile that would make a demon king shiver.
It was then that, with a cunning worthy of my many lives as a manipulator, a strategist, I appealed to the little Exceed's weak spot: his blind, almost canine devotion to Natsu. "Think about it, Happy, my little, valiant winged warrior," I said, in my sweetest, gentlest, most deceptively motherly voice.
"Think of how your dear, beloved, entirely-dependent-on-you Natsu will desperately need a strong, fast, resilient aerial partner during the dangerous S-Class Trial! Do you want to be just a trembling blue scarf, a dead weight to your friend? Or do you want to be the Legendary Elite Combat Flying Cat, the Undisputed Master of the Wild Winds, the Scourge of Icy Foes, bravely helping Natsu kick flaming arses with style, efficiency even in the worst, most terrible of blizzards, and then, as a reward for your heroic deeds, to eat all the warm, juicy, delicious fish in the world?"
It worked like a charm. Or, more accurately, like a very well-calculated, generously-stuffed-with-fresh-fish bribe. Happy, with eyes shining with a new, fervent determination, visions of glory, fish, and an eternally grateful Natsu, finished the week of intensive training able to carry double the weight he could before, performing elaborate, challenging loop-the-loops in Magnolia's cold, biting air, with a stamina, a speed that would have made any military flight instructor proud.
Truly remarkable, impressive progress. I would be, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, an excellent, highly sought-after trainer of magical creatures, if I weren't so magnificently, deeply, irrevocably lazy. And if I liked magical creatures a bit more.
And now, here we were, in the suffocating heat, nauseating smell of Hargeon's port, under this infernal, merciless sun. I, Azra'il Weiss, the personification of cold elegance, existential boredom, with my super-trained, now likely overheated Exceed partner, perched on my shoulder like a blue, furry ornament, probably dreaming of a private igloo, a giant fan, and a tuna-sized frozen fish.
It was then that Natsu, looking like a steamed pepper, his brain clearly overheating, finally spotted his furry friend. He ran towards us like an uncontrolled, chaotic, noisy pink comet, yelling Happy's name with the subtlety of a faulty fire alarm, the joy of a child reunited with their favourite toy.
"HAAAAAPPYYYYYY! YOU LAZY, TRAITOROUS BLUE CAT! YOU'RE ALIVE! AND, MIRACULOUSLY, YOU LOOK LESS MELTED THAN I DO! AND I THINK YOU'VE EVEN GOT NEW MUSCLES ON YOUR WINGS! WHAT DID THAT WEIRDO DO TO YOU?!"
Happy, upon seeing his best friend, his flaming soulmate, probably relieved to finally escape my warm shoulder, my aura of silent disapproval, flew from my shoulder in a blue blur, a veritable missile of pure, crystalline feline emotion, crying tears that likely evaporated before they hit the ground, yelling with all the breath in his little lungs:
"NATSUUUUUUUU! MY FRIEND! I SURVIVED! I SURVIVED AZRA'IL-CHAN'S SCARY INTENSIVE TRAINING AND MAGNOLIA'S FREEZING WINTER! ALL THIS, ONLY TO COME AND MELT FROM THE HEAT HERE IN THIS HELL CALLED HARGEON! IT'S AN INJUSTICE!"
They collided in mid-air in a clumsy, sweaty, noisy, highly emotional hug, complete with tears (or was it just sweat running down their faces?), snot dripping, blue fur sticking to Natsu's wet forehead, many "Aye Sirs!", "I missed you, partner!" A truly slapstick spectacle, moving in its stupidity, which, inevitably, attracted the curious, slightly disgusted glances of other passengers, port workers. And, on my part, an eye-roll so subtle, discreet it almost went unnoticed. Almost.
[Ah, the pure, ineffable beauty of youthful friendship, exaggerated melodrama, even under a cracking sun, an imminent risk of dehydration. My cuteness sensors are officially overloaded, in urgent need of an ice bath to avoid overheating. And my disgust sensors too, I must add, considering the worrying amount of bodily fluids involved in this display of affection,] Eos commented in my mind, with her usual, irritating cynical superiority, a scientific precision entirely unnecessary.
(Ridiculous. Both of them. Completely, utterly ridiculous,) I thought, with an internal sigh of pure resignation. But, much to my utter, absolute surprise, perhaps my growing horror, an almost-smile, a stubborn, entirely involuntary twitch, insisted on appearing at the corner of my lips.
Even for an ancient, cynical, stone-hearted entity like me, the sheer intensity, unshakeable sincerity of those two noisy idiots' friendship was… curious. And, in a strange, utterly illogical way, almost… touching. Or perhaps it was just the excessive heat making me delirious, having dangerous sentimental thoughts. It was definitely the heat.
I glanced sideways at Erza, who was watching the scene of the dramatic reunion with a small, genuine, affectionate smile on her lips. Her eye shone with a tenderness that made her even more beautiful.
The calm before the inevitable storm of the exam. And I had the distinct, uncomfortable, increasingly strong feeling that this mysterious, sacred island held much, much more in store for us than simple tests of strength, heat endurance, the ability to put up with Natsu for more than five minutes. But, for now, for all of us, the greatest, most pressing challenge seemed to be simply not succumbing to severe sunstroke, a fatal boredom before even setting foot on that bloody, likely overestimated floating tub they called a ship.
May the gods, if they even existed in this world, had any sense of humour, have mercy on my already depleted stock of patience. And, infinitely more importantly, on my sensitive, delicate skin which, with absolute certainty, would not appreciate a third-degree sunburn in the slightest. I really needed a parasol. Or a servant to hold one for me. Happy perhaps? The idea was tempting.