Chapter 195| Two years

The anniversary arrived quietly, without any of the considerable fanfare that seemed to accompany every other milestone in their extraordinary life, and Allen found himself grateful for that — some occasions, he’d learned, deserved simplicity rather than spectacle.

"Six years," Myria said, joining him on the guild’s balcony as the morning light spread gently over Hegeville’s own considerable, hard-won peace. "I still remember the exact moment you asked all four of us properly, rather than simply assuming."

"You made me nervous," Allen admitted, smiling at the memory. "I rehearsed that question for nearly a week."

"I know," Myria said, something fond and teasing in her tone. "You stumbled over half of it anyway."

"Considerably," Allen agreed, laughing.

They gathered later that morning in the small garden Everlyn had first begun cultivating years earlier, its considerable, patient growth now stretching across nearly the entire eastern corner of the guild’s grounds, and Allen found his wives waiting there together, each carrying some small, personal token of their shared history.

"I made something," Everlyn wrote, presenting a pressed collection of flowers gathered from every significant stage of their marriage — a bloom from their first proper date, another from the day Allen had finally healed her voice’s underlying injury, one more from Haruki’s memorial garden, each one carefully labeled in her own patient, careful hand.

"This is beautiful," Allen said, studying the considerable, thoughtful collection with genuine, overwhelmed emotion.

"I wanted something that showed the whole journey," Everlyn wrote. "Not just the good parts. All of it. Because all of it mattered."

Vivian presented her own gift next, a small, considerable journal filled with detailed accounts of every significant battle they’d fought together, written with the same careful, methodical precision she brought to everything, though the entries themselves carried a warmth that surprised Allen, personal reflections woven carefully alongside tactical detail.

"I wanted a record," Vivian admitted. "Not just of what we survived. Of what it actually felt like, surviving it together."

Irene’s own gift arrived with characteristic, fierce enthusiasm — a small, hand-forged pendant, crafted with Theo Arsweiss’s own considerable assistance, bearing each of their names etched carefully into its surface.

"So you never forget who you belong to," Irene said, grinning as she fastened it around his neck. "Not that I’d ever let you forget, honestly."

Myria’s gift came last, and Allen recognized immediately, from the familiar shape of the box, exactly what she intended to share.

"I want you to see the full collection," she said quietly, opening the considerable archive she’d first revealed to him months earlier. "Every year, properly organized. I thought, given the occasion, you deserved to see the whole of it at once, rather than simply discovering pieces gradually."

---

They spent the remainder of the day working through six years’ worth of carefully preserved memories, each item drawing fresh laughter or quiet, considerable tears as the particular moment it represented resurfaced in vivid, treasured detail.

"I can’t believe you kept this," Allen said, holding up a considerably crumpled note from their very first, awkward conversation in Hegeville’s original, rundown kitchen.

"I keep everything," Myria said simply. "You know that by now."

"I do," Allen agreed, drawing all four of them close as the evening finally settled over the garden’s considerable, patient bloom. "Six years. I don’t think I properly understood, back at the very beginning, exactly how much this would come to mean."

"None of us did," Vivian said softly. "I think that’s part of what makes it so remarkable. We just kept choosing each other, one difficult, considerable day at a time, and somehow it grew into all of this."

Irene, still admiring the pendant now resting against Allen’s chest, glanced up with a small, uncharacteristically soft smile. "I used to think love like this only happened in stories," she admitted. "The kind where nothing ever really goes wrong. Ours went wrong constantly, and somehow that’s exactly what made it feel real."

"It’s real because we kept choosing it, even on the hard days," Everlyn wrote, nodding in quiet agreement.

"I’d choose all of you again," Allen said. "Every single time, without hesitation."

"Good," Irene said, grinning fiercely. "Because we’re not going anywhere."

They stayed in the garden long after the sun had fully set, six years of hard-won love settling comfortably around them beneath a clear, considerable sky, and Allen felt, holding his family close in the gathering dark, deeply and completely grateful for a life he could never have properly imagined, back when he’d first arrived in this town with nothing but stubborn hope and a desperate need to matter to someone, anyone, at all.

"Can I ask something?" Everlyn wrote, once the quiet had settled comfortably around them. "What do you actually remember most, from that very first day? Before any of this existed yet?"

Allen considered the question carefully, letting the memory surface properly before answering. "I remember being terrified," he admitted. "Terrified you’d all see exactly how little I had to offer, and decide I wasn’t worth the trouble. I remember Myria’s careful, guarded skepticism. Vivian’s quiet wariness. Irene’s restless anger. Everlyn’s silence, and how much I wanted to understand what it actually meant, rather than just tolerate it."

"And now?" Vivian asked softly.

"Now I remember it as the day everything I actually wanted finally started becoming possible," Allen said. "I just didn’t know it yet."

"None of us did," Myria said, drawing him close. "That’s the whole beautiful, considerable mystery of it, I think. We rarely recognize the beginning of something extraordinary while we’re actually living through it."

Allen let the thought settle, drawing quiet, grateful comfort from his family’s steady, familiar presence, and together they let the evening’s considerable peace carry them gently toward whatever the following year still had waiting, six years already behind them and, he suspected, considerably more still ahead.

They finally rose from the garden as the night deepened fully around them, gathering their small, considerable collection of shared treasures to carry back inside, and Allen paused a moment at the garden’s edge, looking back at the space that had grown, alongside their own marriage, from a handful of struggling herbs into something genuinely, considerably beautiful.

"Same time next year?" Irene asked, grinning.

"Same time every year," Allen said, "for as long as you’ll all have me."

"Forever, then," Everlyn wrote, echoing Irene’s own earlier promise, and the family made their way back inside together, six years of hard-won love settled comfortably behind them, and, Allen suspected, considerably more still waiting patiently ahead.