Emil Short Story

The ale burns your throat as it slides down. That makes sense; after all, you’d requested the tavern’s strongest brew. Being sent on quests wasn’t unusual at this point, and it’s certainly not the source of your current distress. Emil being present, however, is.

The Queen has become fond of sending you off to do odds and ends for her with either Florian or Marcella, or both if the situation demands. She believes it instills discipline in her son, despite the fact that it most certainly does not. Regardless, she’s of that opinion and is not one to be dissuaded.

Of course, since you’re going on quests for the crown, that means the Renauds just have to poke their heads into matters and force their heir to tag along, too. Hence your current predicament; you’re tired and away from home with no one but Emil for company. Well, him and your ale, now.

If you’re being honest, the ale might be a better companion.

It’s bitter thinking, to be certain, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You sit your glass down on the table, careful not to send amber liquid sloshing. Emil sits across from you, pushing around carrots and beef like he’s lost all his appetite. He’s been quiet this whole time, barely speaking a word outside the necessary. It’s something you’ve grown used to; the talkative and borderline bossy boy of your youth is gone, replaced by a ghost wearing the same face.

Your mouth twists. He glances up. It remains quiet.

Drink after drink comes and goes; ale for you, water for him. Perhaps you’ll regret it in the morning, but you can’t deal with this right now. The feelings, the emotions, the memories; they need to be gone, if only briefly, if only for the night. You want to be numb.

“Maybe you’ve had enough,” Emil suggests quietly.

You look up and realize you’re crying. Looks like the ale was a rather shitty companion after all.

“You don’t get to tell me when I’ve had enough,” You choke out, “You don’t have any say in anything I do.”

His mouth moves, wordless. Then his lips press together firmly and he’s staring down at his hands. Your eyes drift down, too, and you see the myriad of scars that mar his fingers and palms. Your heart twists violently but you force yourself to tear your gaze away.

You don’t care. You don’t care.

“I don’t care,” You slur slightly, jaw clenched.

Emil hesitates, glancing up, “About…what?”

“You.” The word shoots from your lips, heedless of its impact.

And it does have an impact. His eyelids flutter, a flinch of disbelief, and you see his throat bob as he swallows his grief. You turn your own teary gaze down, regretting the words but not enough to take them back.

“You never cared about me,” You mourn, “Why should I care? Why do I still care?”

“Daisy-“ He tries to speak, voice hoarse.

You practically recoil at the old nickname; it’s a reminder of braided flower crowns, of time spent in the gardens and fields. Back when you would pluck daisies and twist them into dark hair with childlike joy and wonder.

You don’t need any more reminders.

“Don’t call me that,” You plead, “Not after what happened. Not after you left me.”

His face twists, like he’s in pain, and you’re almost happy he finally feels what you’ve been feeling all these years. Then, immediately after, the regret sits in. It’s not as if he’s been the picture-perfect heir all these years; he’s falling apart visibly, barely holding himself together at the seams.

Is it an excuse? Is it a valid reason for that old concern and empathy to be bubbling up your throat again, as acidic in your mouth as bile?

“Please.” His eyes slip closed, “You’re drunk. Please stop.”

And just like that, hearing your name on his tongue, you’re breaking apart. Your lips tremble and the tears fall faster, hitting both the table and Emil’s heart. Maybe if you pretend, maybe if you don’t look up and see him breaking, too…

Maybe then you can ignore all the signs that point to mutual destruction.

“You should go to bed,” He says, his eyes far away.

You hardly notice. Your mind is just as gone. When he stands and guides you carefully by the arm, you follow like a shade. You enter your room and let him close the door before you lean against it and slide to the floor, heart empty and aching.

Maybe he isn’t the only one who’s a ghost wearing the face of someone who’s long gone. Maybe you are too.