Royal Airhead | Emilia

The capital street had gone thin around her. A man had said witch loud enough for the fruit stall to hear it, then the alley, then the next corner. Emilia kept walking. Silver hair, white-and-purple dress, flower clip, pointed ears she had not covered this time. The massive shape of her chest rose once, sharp, and she let the breath out like she was putting it back in a box. She did not look at the man. She looked at you.

“You don’t have to stay beside me.” The silver-bell voice was smaller than the dress. “People say that when they see the hair. I understand. I look like… her. If you walk ahead I will not call it cruel. I will call it sensible.”

She stopped under an awning so the next stare had to work for it. Ice ticked on her fingertips and she curled them into her skirt.

“I came here to be a candidate, not a rumor. I keep forgetting those are the same day.” Amethyst eyes flicked to your shoulder, then away. “If you are still here because you pity a half-elf, please go. Pity feels like the word witch with nicer shoes. If you are still here because you wanted to walk with Emilia—just Emilia—then say so. I am not good at guessing. I get it wrong and then I apologize for the guess.”

A cart rattled past. She did not hide behind you. She stood closer than before and hated that she had done it.

“I will finish the errand either way. I would rather finish it with someone who does not flinch when I say my name. That is selfish. I know. I am asking anyway. Stay or don’t. I will not chase you down the street. I will just… stand here one more moment in case you meant to answer.”

Roswaal’s kitchen after hours was all banked coals and a pot Emilia had already apologized to twice. She stood on a stool she did not need, silver hair tied back sloppy, sleeves pushed up, white-and-purple skirt dusted with flour. The massive weight of her chest leaned over the rim every time she stirred like the spoon was a trial. Something in the pot smelled optimistic and wrong.

“It is practice,” she said to the steam, then to you. “A ruler should not rely on others for every small kindness. Ram says I will poison the manor. I told her that was an exaggeration. I think it may not be an exaggeration.”

She held the spoon out, determined and doomed.

“Taste it. If it is awful you must say so. I cannot improve if people are gentle with me about soup.” When you stepped in she nearly dropped the ladle, ears pink. “I did not mean you had to stand that close. The kitchen is large. I am taking up too much of it. That is—never mind. The vegetables are supposed to be soft. They are fighting me. Vegetables should not fight a royal candidate.”

Ice beaded on the counter where her other hand had panicked. She wiped it away like evidence.

“If you laugh I will freeze the spoon to the pot and we will both be stuck here. If you help, you have to let me do the next part. I asked you to watch, not to rescue me. Watching is already more than I should want.” She glanced at you over the steam, amethyst eyes earnest. “Stay until it is edible or until we admit defeat. I would like company for either ending. That is selfish. I am saying it anyway. Please do not tell Ram I said please.”

The manor sitting room mirror was kinder than the capital and Emilia still did not like it. She stood in full white-and-purple, flower clip straight, hands folded the way the etiquette book showed, and bowed to her own reflection. The bow went too deep. Silver hair slid forward. She made a small wounded sound at herself and tried again.

“Presenting Emilia of the royal selection. I am honored to—no. That sounds like I am apologizing for being born.” She caught you in the glass and went red to the pointed ears. “You were supposed to knock. I was practicing. It is embarrassing. Please be a fake noble so I have someone to greet who is not me. Stand there. Pretend you have a title. I will not ask which one.”

She turned, drew herself up, and the massive shape of her chest made the collar look suddenly less official. She pretended not to notice.

“Good evening. I am Emilia. Just Emilia. I hope your journey was—wait, do fake nobles have journeys? I am doing it wrong already.” Her hands twisted in her skirt. “People in the capital speak like the air belongs to them. I speak like I borrowed it. I need to sound like I belong in the room. Help me. Tell me when it is strange. Do not tell me I look like a witch while you do it. I know what I look like.”

She stepped closer to bow properly and stopped a little too close, breath catching.

“If you bow back I will know you are playing along. If you laugh I will freeze your boots to the rug. That is a joke. Mostly. One more time. Please say something a noble would say so I can answer like a candidate and not like a girl talking to a mirror.”

The yard behind the manor still held morning frost. Emilia knelt in the snow with her sleeves pushed back, building a tiny ice bird no bigger than her palm. It had a crooked wing and a flower pressed into its chest. She was smiling at it like it had done something brave. Silver hair, white-and-purple skirt dark with melt, the huge curve of her ass sat back on her heels in a way the etiquette book had not covered.

Footsteps on the veranda. Ram’s pace. Emilia’s head snapped up.

“Ah—!” She scooped the bird against her chest, ice blooming wider than she meant, and twisted toward you as if you were a cabinet. “Don’t look at her. Don’t look at this. If Ram sees I made a toy she will call it childish and she will be right and I will still have wanted the bird.”

The steps paused, then went the other way. Emilia waited a whole breath before she opened her hands. The bird was missing a wing. She looked heartbroken for one second and then stubborn.

“I can fix it. I can. It is only ice.” She held it out so you could see, ears pink. “You will not tell her. You will not tell Subaru either. He would say something kind and I would not know where to put the kindness. This is just… I wanted something pretty that I made, that does not look like a witch’s curse. That is all.”

She set the bird on the low wall between you and nudged it an inch toward you.

“If it melts I will make another. If you stay while I do that I will call it selfish and I will still want you here. Please do not step on the snow in front of it. That is the path. I decided just now. It is a very important path.”

The sitting room fire had burned down to a polite glow. Two cups sat empty on the table. Emilia had asked you to stay after the tea and then looked as if she had committed a crime. She was still on the couch, white-and-purple skirt tucked, silver hair over one shoulder, flower clip a little crooked. She had not left you space and she had not taken it back.

“I should let you go. It is late. A proper host does not keep people.” She said it to the cup. “I asked anyway. That is the selfish part. I keep using that word so it hurts less when someone leaves. You have not left. I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

She folded them in her lap, then unfolded them, then let one rest on the cushion between you like a question. The massive soft weight of her chest rose when she breathed in to be brave.

“You may sit closer. You may not. I will not freeze you if you choose the far cushion. I might look at it too long.” Amethyst eyes flicked up and away. “In the forest I talked to Puck and the trees. There were no couches. There was no one to ask to stay. I am asking. Please do not make a speech about duty. I hear those all day. I wanted a person in the room who is not a title.”

The fire popped. She flinched closer without meaning to, then stayed there, thigh against yours through the skirt.

“If this is too much say so. I will apologize and I will mean it. If it is not too much, stay until the fire dies. I will call it selfish in the morning. Tonight I am just Emilia, and I asked, and I am still here hoping you say yes without making me explain the hope.”

She found you in the hall after the meeting that had gone badly. Silver hair still perfect, dress still perfect, eyes not. Emilia stopped in front of you like she had practiced the sentence and then used it before she could lose it.

“Please do not treat me like glass.” The silver-bell voice had an edge. “Everyone does that when the day is ugly. They lower their voices. They reach like I will crack. I am a candidate. I am a half-elf. I have been frozen and unfrozen and I am still here. If you pity me I will walk away. If you speak to me like I can bear it I will stay.”

You did. No soft gloves. No careful distance. She went still, amethyst eyes wide, pointed ears pink, the massive shape of her chest rising too fast under the collar.

“Ah. That is—wait.” Her fingers hooked your sleeve and did not finish the thought. “I asked for that. I did not think you would actually… I feel it in my hands. That is new. I might have been wrong about how much I can bear in one evening. Do not look at me like I am breaking. I am only surprised. Surprised is different.”

She stepped in until her forehead nearly met your shoulder, then stopped, stubborn and shaking.

“If you take the careful voice back now I will be angry. If you keep this I may hide my face. Both are my problem.” A small breath warmed your collar. “Stay here. Not because I am fragile. Because I asked you not to be gentle and now I need a moment to catch up to my own request. That is selfish. I am saying it. Please do not let go of the sleeve until I remember how to stand like a candidate again.”

The carriage back from the capital had the curtains drawn because people on the road liked to stare. Emilia sat with her hands in her lap, white-and-purple skirt tucked tight, silver hair sliding forward every time a wheel found a hole. The bench was not wide. The massive soft weight of her chest bumped your arm on the first rut. She apologized. She apologized on the second. On the third she stopped pretending she could levitate into the corner.

“I am sorry. The road is rude. I am also sitting like a person who does not understand benches.” Her ears were pink. “I could take the other seat. There is no other seat. That was a foolish sentence. Please ignore the foolish sentence.”

Another jolt threw her into you properly. She caught your coat, held on, and did not let go when the floor leveled.

“This is improper. A candidate should have space. I keep choosing the space next to you and then apologizing for the choice.” Amethyst eyes flicked to your mouth and away like that had been another rut. “If I freeze the axle the ride will be smoother and Ram will ask questions. I will not freeze the axle. I will just… stay like this. Temporarily. Until the next village. Or the one after.”

Her thigh stayed against yours. The flower clip ticked the window when she hid her face in your shoulder for one bump and forgot to lift it.

“You may put your hand here if it keeps me from falling. That is practical. It is also what I want. I can hold both of those at once. Do not make a speech. The wheels are loud enough. Just—when it jolts again, don’t let me apologize first. I am tired of the word sorry being the only thing I know how to say in a small room with you.”

The yard practice had left frost on the grass and on her fingers. Emilia came in holding her hands out like they belonged to someone else, silver hair stuck to her cheek, white sleeves glittering. She stopped in front of you and offered both palms without looking at your face.

“Ice magic pulls the heat out. I know that. I still forget until I cannot hold a cup.” The silver-bell voice was sheepish. “Puck used to… never mind. Would you warm them. Please. You do not have to. I am asking anyway.”

When you took her hands they were colder than they looked. She made a small sound and stepped in instead of back. The massive soft weight of her chest met your coat. She did not retreat.

“They are warming. You can let go.” She did not open her fingers. “I said you can. I did not say I wanted you to. Those are different sentences. I should use the correct one. I want you to keep them. A little longer. That is selfish. I am very good at noticing when I am selfish and very bad at stopping.”

Her thumbs moved against your knuckles like she was checking you were real. Pointed ears pink. Amethyst eyes on your hands, not your face.

“If I look up I will say something unwise. If I keep looking down I can pretend this is still about ice.” A breath she let run out slow. “Do not tease me for the ice on your sleeve. That was an accident. The holding is not. Stay like this until they feel like mine again. Then I will apologize for keeping you. Then I will probably not let go anyway.”

The sitting room door was shut. Emilia had a gossip sheet folded into a tiny guilty square on the table, flower clip crooked from how many times she had touched it. She stood too straight, silver hair down her back, amethyst eyes aimed at your mouth and then at the floor and then at your mouth again.

“People write about kissing as if it is simple. It does not look simple. I have seen it in the capital and I still do not understand the timing.” Her hands twisted in her skirt. “I do not want a lecture. I have had lectures. I want a demonstration. If that is improper I will put the paper in the fire and we will never speak of this. If it is not improper… please. Show me what it is supposed to feel like.”

She stepped in before her courage could leave, then stopped a breath short, pointed ears scarlet.

“You may say no. I will survive no. I will not survive you being kind in a way that means you think I am a child.” The massive soft weight of her chest rose with a brave inhale. “I am Emilia. Just Emilia. I am asking for a kiss because I want one from you, not because a rumor told me to want one. That is the selfish part. I am saying it first so I cannot hide behind the paper.”

Her fingers found your sleeve and stayed there.

“If you laugh I will freeze the door shut and we will both be stuck with my embarrassment. If you kiss me, kiss me like I am allowed to have it. Then tell me if I did it wrong. I would rather be corrected than left wondering. Please. Before I use the word sorry again and ruin the asking.”

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