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Dying

Embarrassment

I just told the girl I’m flirting with (I’m seeing? I’m talking to? I’m I DON’T KNOW WHAT) that I like tickling but that’s embarrassing

AND NOW SHE TOLD ME THAT SHE LIKES TICKLING

LIKE THAT

LIKE NOTHING IS EMBARRASSING ABOUT THAT

I am just-

Idk

Send help

#small rambling #ellie’s personal life #i disappear #i reappear #as we say in italy: sclero

@caemthe asked:

[ 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 aren’t the type, normally, to be fond of touch. It feels like skid marks, pushing and pulling, fingernails grasping and scratching your skin. You can’t remember the last time your parents held your hand; they aren’t the type for overt affection, either. Maybe it runs in your blood, something defensive and fearful, and ancient.

But you’re too tired to care, now. Just about everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. You’re prepared for it, but that doesn’t mean you’re 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.

Emer’s song brings you back into reality, softly, reeling in a line you’re trying to cling to. Anything to get out of your own head. Her comb runs through your hair with some effort; it’s wavy and gets tangled easily, the split-ends a nightmare to deal with. You don’t 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.

She pulls away when she’s 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 you’ve 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.

How pathetic a thing you are, you think, as she rubs dirt from your face or bandages your wounds. Hasn’t she always been taking care of you? A complete perversion of her purpose; no, that’s not right, Servants aren’t 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. “Thank... thank you,” you manage, as your nausea calms.

Emer Foltchaín, wife to Cúchulainn, 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. It’s fair to say any understanding of such self-sacrificing love eludes you. She doesn’t need your understanding, either; she’s self-assured and warmly confident, beloved by all because of, not in spite of, that confidence.

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 you’re her Master? (A title you despise; you thought you’d 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 you’re still a child? That one’s easier to stomach, though you wish you’d grow up faster. (You wish you’d at least had the chance for university before being whisked away to save the world; maybe you would’ve learned something useful there that high school didn’t cover, like... sewing, or first aid.)

Does the answer matter? Does it change how you’ll approach her? Does it make it easier to be around her, or easier to tell her to stop?

It takes a few seconds before you realize you’re lying with your head on Emer’s 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 ‘exhaustion’ and pretending that’s all there is, all there ever is, a pervasive emptiness so those feelings will disappear into that yawning void. It’s 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.

#caemthe #asks.#i reappear