okaaay, uh, update, entirely possible i might move rikko over to @inheroicâ, my multimuse, but i wonât be deleting this blog since all my pages and threads and stuff are here, but yknow. if you wanna see more rikko go follow me over there and iâll leave the fate of this blog up to future meÂ
Whoever has taken control of the music-player system of Chaldea, please change the musical selection, on request of Archer-class Tristan. Furthermore, please relinquish control of the music-player system back to Chaldea, as a special request of Ritsuka. Thank you, and have a nice day.
The past, present, and future all converge on âyouâ.Â
Timelines of hopes and dreams, heroes of all stripes, approach this being called âChaldeaâ: an observation tool, and a home to humanity, a vigilant steward. A singularity, unique and alone.Â
No matter how much you love something, you will never be able to walk among it.
Therefore, you must obtain feet.Â
You will never be able to interact with it.Â
Therefore, you must obtain hands.Â
You will never be able to speak with it.
Therefore, you must obtain a tongue.
You will never be able to understand it.
Therefore, you must obtain a heart.Â
Ritsuka Fujimaru: designated Master. Compatibility: excellent. Signal strength: unbreakable. You are the ultimate observation device. Nothing escapes your sight. You will be its eyes, and in turn, it will be your body.Â
--
You learn âheatâ first. Fire, as it burns against nerves. Warmth, as that fire dies into a pleasant glow. When two beings come into contact they create heat as friction, or heat as warmth. It holds another creatureâs hands in its own, creating a blossoming warmth. It terms such warmth âfriendshipâ.
You learn âcoldâ next. Frost, which feels not so different from fire. Chill, as a respite from heat. You understand balance is necessity to pleasant feelings. It bites into ice cream while looking at a blizzard outside the window, which throws your previous understanding into confusion. You learn just as balance is loved, so it is hated, though why, you cannot understand. Later, you would understand equilibrium as peace, and also as boredom.Â
âPerfect systems of ecology and geology, interrupted by human activityâ. This is your description of âEarthâ. You have known the strength of it through all of time, but only now do you see it clearly: as a tide rushing to consume; as thunderstorms setting fires across plains; as sandstorms cutting into its skin; and you see it in the way it rests against a tree in exhaustion, and stops to heal an injured avian, and holds ripe fruits in its hands. âEarthâ is unforgiving, and yet, worthy of tenderness.Â
And then, the last one. You learn it through pain, first. One, then another close companion, ripped away from it. Its anger turns into bloodthirst. You fail to understand how it could not resume happiness once the offender was removed. It begins to âloseâ more; you understand this âlossâ as permanent absence, confusion... yes, âgriefâ is the word for it. Is avoiding such âgriefâ its only reason for continuation? Why does it not remove the risk of grief? You consult the others, who inform you humans are flawed, imperfect, cannot be summed up by logic; their very actions defy it. You do not understand. Why does it continue to love?Â
âItâs simple,â says your mouth.Â
âItâs easy,â say your hands.
âI know why,â say your legs.Â
Will you tell me?
âOf course. I love, because I must love.â
You must love humanity, because you are made to love humanity. Because you are made to love humanity, you must protect humanity. You must protect humanity, so you must love humanity. Before you can love humanity, you must love humans.Â
But what is âloveâ? The desire to protect?
âSometimes they are the same.â
The desire to possess?
âSometimes they are alike.â
The desire to know?
âSometimes they go hand-in-hand.â
You repeat: What is âloveâ?Â
âThe heat of passion, and the chill of relief. The tenderness of leaves, and the fury of tempests. The embrace of grief, as we reckon with time and treasure our togetherness. The everyday, endless and repeating, and life, brief and inspired.Â
âYou know already, because you love humanity.Â
âBecause you,â
and she opens her eyes,
your eyes,
and you gaze into the past and future and the present of âyou and Iâ,
âSeeing everyone so happy and relaxed, I feel like a weight is lifted from my shoulders. Recently, weâve been enduring tough situations one after the other... so, getting to see Mashu smile, watching my allies gather and drink and have fun... I feel renewed. Itâs strange for me to say, since my brow is always furrowed, I know, but even I canât help but feel hopeful when I see everyone gathered like this. ...It feels like the first days of the Grand Order again. Haha, what am I saying? I never thought Iâd be nostalgic for those hellish months, but...â
â...I was surprised, honestly. Our Director ended up being a pretty industrious person. All of the administrative failings of the Enma-tei are masterfully handled with Goredolf in charge, and likewise, our work is going by much more smoothly than if Madam Beni-Enma were forced to direct us by her lonesome. Heâs clearly someone with experience in an organizational capacity. Iâm sorry Iâd taken him for simply a spoiled mage, although he is one.
âIt seems as though, even if he says one thing, his actions say something completely different. Really... I have a new respect for him. Of course, it doesnât absolve him of recklessly acting and putting us in this situation in the first place, but knowing heâs capable of taking responsibility, I feel much more comfortable with him at the helm.
âGoing into this new year, it seems Iâll be relying on you, Director Goredolf Musik.â
[ assassin emer ] She's humming a lullaby while brushing Rikko's hair. It's night and they're in the middle of a mission that has gone through several delays and accidents. It's all a mess but Emer is calm, her presence kind and soothing in difficult times as always.
You arenât the type, normally, to be fond of touch. It feels like skid marks, pushing and pulling, fingernails grasping and scratching your skin. You canât remember the last time your parents held your hand; they arenât the type for overt affection, either. Maybe it runs in your blood, something defensive and fearful, and ancient.Â
But youâre too tired to care, now. Just about everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. Youâre prepared for it, but that doesnât mean youâre prepared for the mental impact of being prepared for it. Civilians lost. Villages gone. Your hesitation and inaction has a body count. Your rushed action or hasty decision, even moreso. You look down at your hands and rather than skin or blood or muscle you just see the scars and the necrosis and the faded command seals that burn sharply, like knives digging into your nerves.Â
Emerâs song brings you back into reality, softly, reeling in a line youâre trying to cling to. Anything to get out of your own head. Her comb runs through your hair with some effort; itâs wavy and gets tangled easily, the split-ends a nightmare to deal with. You donât flinch as your hair gets caught in knots or wounds on your head ache again; your expression is stonelike, as you sit with your knees against your chest and your arms wrapped around your legs, holding yourself closely.Â
She pulls away when sheâs done and you turn your head slightly, eyeing her out of the corner of your gaze. There is no imperfection in her, at least, not that you can notice. You think to say something but your mouth feels sewn shut, like youâve forgotten how to speak at all, so you sit with your cheek against your knee and watch her. If she notices your gaze, she pretends not to.Â
How pathetic a thing you are, you think, as she rubs dirt from your face or bandages your wounds. Hasnât she always been taking care of you? A complete perversion of her purpose; no, thatâs not right, Servants arenât tools for combat; have you fallen so far that you only think of your allies as tools? You clasp your head as a migraine assails you in blinding shapes; when it eases, Emer lays a cool towel against your neck and wipes the tears from your eyes. Like a goddess, like an angel, like... well, Emer. âThank... thank you,â you manage, as your nausea calms.Â
Emer FoltchaĂn, wife to CĂșchulainn, tragic hero number... however many, of those who roam these hallways. Married to a short-lived man who died standing and lauded instead of burned-out and forgotten, and who, from your understanding, ended her life rather than live without her spouse. Itâs fair to say any understanding of such self-sacrificing love eludes you. She doesnât need your understanding, either; sheâs self-assured and warmly confident, beloved by all because of, not in spite of, that confidence.Â
Which brings you back to your original question, rooting around in your mind, of why she bothers wasting her energy on this, on you. Is it because youâre her Master? (A title you despise; you thought youâd grow to fit it.) But such titles clearly mean nothing to her, if the odd glimpse of her encounters with royals is anything to go by. Is it because youâre still a child? That oneâs easier to stomach, though you wish youâd grow up faster. (You wish youâd at least had the chance for university before being whisked away to save the world; maybe you wouldâve learned something useful there that high school didnât cover, like... sewing, or first aid.)Â
Does the answer matter? Does it change how youâll approach her? Does it make it easier to be around her, or easier to tell her to stop?Â
It takes a few seconds before you realize youâre lying with your head on Emerâs lap, her song in your ear again. Your eyebrows furrow and your eyes sting as you stare at the ground in front of you while she toys with your hair. You should sleep, you think, before you really make a fool of yourself; instead you curl up and bite your tongue, silent tears in your eyes, dripping down the bridge of your nose as you hide your face. Frustration and anger and grief all threaten to make their way out but you cope with calling it âexhaustionâ and pretending thatâs all there is, all there ever is, a pervasive emptiness so those feelings will disappear into that yawning void. Itâs better than the ugliness you know is underneath that.
Eventually you work up the strength to ask to be left alone. Emer purses her lips, considers it, and obliges, and once again you are left by yourself in your tent with the darkness of night and despair edging closer. It is an indeterminate time before you finally fall asleep, dreaming of a sea of severed heads.Â
âDoesnât that just mean youâve been getting no sleep for your whole life?!â Thatâs what it sounds like! The need for a good napping spell becomes ever more pressing. Maybe he should give it a go with the proper sleep spell and hope that the dragon girlâs singing would be enough to counteract it when the time to wake comesâŠ. Er. âYou wouldnât dare! I am helping you! Talk like that and Iâll upgrade the enchantment to ten hours!â You canât just put the tsar on kitchen duty.
"Sports, school, examinations, and college applications donât leave much room for sleep. I take what I can get. Iâm not hallucinating anymore, so.â Thatâs not... helping her case...Â
Ritsuka inhales deeply, propping her spear at her side. Sheâs getting hot-headed again... Itâs happening more frequently, isnât it. âApologies for the outburst. Of course I wouldnât make you suffer such an injustice. Please forgive my grievous error, and... please donât use magic on me.âÂ
   â i can tell , i thought i saw your soul escape for a second . â joking tone , of course . but if Rikko was too exhausted to feed herself , then she wouldâve helped with that too . â yeah , i did . i got a little homesick , so i made it based on my momâs recipe . â
"Itâs a good smell.â Not âhomelyâ, exactly, but... like a glimpse into someone elseâs home. The piercing pain between her eyes might even be forgotten, in this memory. The spoon feels heavy, but the stew warms her from the inside out. âItâs delicious, too... Do you cook often? Iâm... more of a convenience-store-food person, myself.â
   slides her a bowl of warm stew she brought over , gotta make sure she consumes something before medication . â iâll bring it to you in a bit , eat a âlil beforehand . â
âUegh.â Sheâs not gonna complain about a premade dinner... sure, sheâll pick herself back up for a stew dinner. âThanks, Rikkan. I went overboard a little...â (Winces. Doesnât Chaldea have a ânot so brightâ setting?) âDid you make it yourself?â