It’s hard to say whether the day is beautiful today or not.

Fresh lays on her back, feeling the soft grass moving beneath herself as it sways, together with loose strands of her hair in the gentle breeze of a new morning.

Her head is still aching and sore, but she feels like it’s doing her some good to be out in the fresh air. She closes her eyes and sighs in relief, her spread out fingers curling together from lack of tension in her muscles.

“Thank you, that’s enough for now,” says Basil.

“Spakew!” replies the springan.

The three of them aren’t actually outside-outside, rather, they’re on the farm. Basil had told her that some fresh air will help her head and that it’s better than lying alone in bed all day, so Fresh agreed, following the wisdom of the wisest priestess in the land.

In order to help the plants and the mushrooms grow stronger, Basil has found a use for Fresh’s magical feather-duster and for the springan, who is now a more useful helper than before.

“The wind helps the plants grow stronger,” explains Basil a second time, feeling Fresh’s curious gaze turn over towards her again. She lifts up a droopy vine that is growing along the wall of the space. “Without any wind, they get weak and saggy,” says the priestess. “But if they have to hold up on their own every now and then, it strengthens the fibers and they get tougher.”

Fresh nods. That makes sense. It also sounds like a good life-lesson. The springan laughs, waving the feather-duster again. The gust shoots through the room, filling the space with a peaceful rustle as a thousand leaves, ferns, vines and branches sway in the gust.

“Don’t over-do it,” says Basil, lifting a finger to scold it. “Too much is bad for them too.”

The springan nods, giving Basil the feather-duster and receiving a pat on its flowery head in return.

“Hey, Basil?” asks Fresh, rolling her head to look back towards the priestess standing next to her.

“Yes?”

Fresh blinks, wondering if this is a rude thing to ask so directly and so early in the morning as well. “Do you think it matters anymore?” she asks anyway, putting the question out there. Basil stares down at her for a moment, before looking around the farm.

In the last few weeks, the farm has really grown. The barren patches of dirt that had nothing but mushrooms are now sprouting like hills in a richly nourished forest floor. The entire area that had mostly been loose dirt is now covered in grass and flowers. The walls are covered in ferns and roots and vines. By all accounts, Basil’s efforts to regrow the farm, in order to be able to create a reliable supply of food for the city and its people in need, have been a complete and total success.

But, well…

- Will the city even need food in a week from now? A month from now? Two? Will they?

Fresh supposes in that regard, the same question could be asked about everything they’re doing. She had spent nights working on the heating-sphere for the orichalcum forge, for example. But honestly, why? What’s the point?

“It does matter,” replies Basil, holding a finger under one of the springan’s blossoms to look at it more closely. “It makes me happy, you know?” asks the priestess, turning back to look her way. “It makes me feel better.”

“Mm,” nods Fresh. She supposes that makes sense. After all, just about everything she does is because of that too. Sure, often the things she does end up making people happy, but the real reason she does a lot of it is because the sight of them being happy makes her happy. It’s really just a selfish act most of the time, in truth.

Basil bends down, helping her to get up and then dusts her off. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

“Can I just sleep here?” asks Fresh, yawning loudly, despite it still being the morning.

“On the ground?” asks Basil. “No. Come on,” she says, dragging her along. Fresh sighs, letting herself be dragged away by the priestess as the springan stands behind them and pushes against her to help keep her moving. A hand squeezes her wrist. “We’re going to be okay,” says Basil, rather out of the blue.

Fresh stares at the priestess for a moment, but then nods, letting herself be taken away. The world might be ending, but as for them, they’re going to be okay.

Somehow.

“What’chya reading?” asks Fresh, laying in bed.

Jubilee, sitting with crossed legs and leaning against the backrest on the far side of the bed, looks over their shoulder towards her. “Book.”

Fresh blinks, sitting up and worming her way forward on her belly. “What kind of book?” she asks curiously, crawling on her stomach towards Jubilee.

Jubilee rolls their eyes, holding a hand out to block her from approaching as they turn back to their reading. “It wouldn’t interest you. It has words.”

“I like words!” argues Fresh, slipping past Jubilee’s hand and then spinning around onto her back, laying her head on their lap and looking up towards their face and at the book. “Words are my favorite!”

“…Do you mind?”

Fresh shakes her head. “No, it’s okay, Jubilee,” she says. “You can keep reading.”

Jubilee sighs. “Don’t get any of your goo on me,” they warn. Fresh pulls her blanket up, laying sideways over the entire row of beds as she nuzzles the back of her head into Jubilee’s lap. “You shouldn’t be in here with me for too long if you don’t wanna get sick,” she says, yawning.

“I don’t get sick,” says Jubilee.

“Oh. Okay,” replies Fresh, feeling a new sleep come over her. Jubilee is such a good friend, worrying about her all day like this, even at risk of getting sick themselves.

Fresh sits at the library table. Today and yesterday have just been nothing but days of lounging around. One of the perks of being sick. Sure, in one sense, she misses having work and being busy all day. But on the other hand, being able to just relax all day and being pampered by her friends is nice too.

“Three,” says Shamrock, moving his game-piece over the fields of the board-game.

Fresh frowns. She’s about to lose her lead. The man has almost caught up with her. She lifts her gaze, staring at the bowls of snacks on the table. His is almost full, whereas the three of theirs are already down to slim pickings. Shamrock not only takes games seriously, but he’s also somehow very good at them.

She grabs the dice, getting ready to roll her turn.

“P- pakew?” asks a voice to the side. Fresh turns her head, looking at the springan and the healer-spriggan. The two of them haven’t really hung out anymore, not since the healer-spriggan had bullied it so often and especially not since the smaller creature’s transformation. The healer-spriggan holds out a big flower with its two stubby arms to the springan, its former friend and playmate.

The springan, on its way upstairs to do whatever it is that springans do, turns to look at the offering for a moment and then, without a word or any other reaction, just keeps walking up the staircase, leaving the healer-spriggan standing there by itself, its hands still held out.

“Ouch,” says Jubilee.

“The heart is a treacherous thing, isn’t it?” asks Basil, sighing and shaking her head.

The healer-spriggan lowers its head and the flower. Feeling itself being watched by the four of them, it slumps off to go downstairs by itself.

“Oh no…” says Fresh. “Poor guy.”

“That’s what he gets for being a dick while being poor and ugly,” says Jubilee.

“I don’t know,” says Basil. “Maybe it was trying to learn from your success?” she suggests.

“Watch it, Basil,” says Jubilee. “With looks like mine, I can afford to act however I want and get away with it,” they say, taking one of the priestess’ orange fruit pieces, despite it not being their turn.

Basil sighs. “Maybe that’s just because everyone has pity for you and you don’t even realize it?”

“The only one who is pitied here regularly is your sad ass,” remarks Jubilee.

The two of them devolve into one of their usual fights and now Fresh just sighs, shaking her head.

Shamrock’s finger taps against the table. “Roll.”

“Huh?” Fresh blinks, turning to look at the very serious looking man.

“Roll,” he repeats.

“Shamrock, do you just want my snacks?” she asks warily.

“Roll,” is all that the man says, his finger only tapping once this time, but with enough force to send a slight rattle through the table.

Shamrock takes games very seriously. Fresh rolls the dice, deciding that it’s in her best interests. Besides, despite how scary Shamrock can be, playing games with him makes her happy.

She rolls a six and sighs in relief, safe for another round.