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Emile is a little shit, yes, and I get that he has an eminently punchable face. But if you give me just a minute, I can try to explain why I stick it out with him. And why I love him.
We grew up together. No, that isn’t the whole of it, but it means something to me, and I think it’s important context to start with. He annoyed me a lot back then with how haughty and presumptuous he could be. Still does, though I have a better understanding of him now, and I think he’s at least trying to improve these days. I got to spend time around his family’s estate thanks to my older sister and brother working there as guards and occasional muscle. There weren’t any other kids around out age running around, so we ended up in each other’s’ vicinities a lot by default, even though we were in different social classes. Some of the house hands even tried to treat me like his servant boy, telling me to do this or that for the “young master”. I don’t know if he felt entitled to me or just liked getting to tell off adults, but Emile usually set them straight. It was weird, but it meant I never really had to do any work, which I was fine with.
So anyway, one evening while I was waiting for my sister and brother to get off shift for dinner, a commotion broke out in the house. Emile – we were about nine, then, I guess – had thrown a tantrum about something or other and run off, and now no one could find him. Worse, it was raining and windy and already dark out. They were afraid he’d get hurt and lost and… I don’t know, eaten by badgers or something. So all the servants were scrambling to try and find him, included illy and Jo. That’s my older siblings. When I found them, they asked me to help out, too.
So, I did, though not very hard. I was pissed at Emile for holding up dinner for me and them when his family had already eaten. I wandered the grounds where there were fewer people to catch me sulking, thinking about how the food would be cold by the time everything got settled. Eventually, I got tired of the rain and popped into one of the barns to dry off. It was warm inside, and the cows and goats were unbothered. As I walked through, I saw the ladder to the loft had fallen over. I propped it back up and – just to say I’d tried – climbed up to check the loft. Well, wouldn’t you know it? There was Emile, all soaked and mussed, scrunched up against the back wall with his knees pulled up to his chin. His eyes and nose were red. His whole face was flushed and ruddy. I guess he’d been crying. So I just…walked over and sat down with him, listening to the rain outside. For all the time we’d spent together, I had no idea what to say. It was all I could do.
I thought for sure he’d tell me to fuck off. Wouldn’t have been the first time. But no, we just sat there. I don’t know for how long. Eventually, Emile stood and announced he was going back to the house. When I saw him go for the ladder, all I could think of was him tumbling down and falling on his face. Part of me wanted to see that, but thankfully the majority of me won out, hopped up, and told him to let me go first so I could hold the ladder for him.
It was pitch black by the time we got back. All of the servants were relieved to see us safe, but the mood changed completely when we were ushered to Lord Ragthorn. I guess he was talking to someone about the whole debacle; everyone in the room was tense. Emile walked over to his father, and that man just gave him this look of furious disappointment like someone had served him a plate of bones in place of a steak. I was bracing for him to chew Emile out. I’d heard Lord Ragthorn speak down to Emile when he’d been in trouble before. He never minced words.
But instead, he pulled back his arm and slapped him in the face. I think he nearly knocked Emile over. I don’t even know what Lord Ragthorn said after that, I was in such shock myself. I’d never seen that before. Sure, I’d watched sparring matches between the guards or fistfights break out or one of the maids slap a footman for an indecent comment. But this was different. The echo was deafening in the silence of the room. Emile was crying. Lord Ragthorn wasn’t even raising his voice, but he was terrifying. I may as well have taken a knife to the stomach; I felt all the blood drain out of me.
I was led away while Emile was still crying. It was like I couldn’t hear anyone else over him. Someone took me to Illy and Jo. They said I was the hero of the night, even though I didn’t feel like it. We ate dinner. The kitchen gave me some fancy scraps of cornmeal fried in hog fat left over from the Ragthorns’ meal as a reward. I got extra beans and was allowed to have a glass of the tables wine…but it may as well have all been curdled milk to my stomach. I couldn’t get the scene of Emile being struck out of my head. It kept replaying in my mind. I felt sick. I wanted to share the good with Smile, especially since I couldn’t even enjoy it. But I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to, not least of which because he’d been grounded for his little stunt.
The next time I saw him, we both acted like none of it had happened. I never asked him what had set him off initially or what happened afterward. Maybe I should have. Maybe he wouldn’t have told me anyway. But at least he would have known someone cared about him.
It wasn’t the last time I saw Lord Ragthorn strike his son. None ever had quite the same impact on me as that first time, but I swear that my resentment for him doubles every time. These days, I’ve been particularly conscious of how much physically larger I am than Lord Ragthorn, and I swear every time might be the time that I snap and slap him right back in his face. It’s just a fantasy, though, my little way of blowing off steam. I have my family to think of, and it wouldn’t actually help Emile anyway. Just selfish catharsis.
Maybe it’s just me wanting to make excuses for him, but that’s how I found the patience to deal with Emile. He doesn’t know how to express things genuinely. Maybe he doesn’t even really know what love is or what it’s supposed to be. I hate the way his father treats him like property, like an underperforming show dog. There’s nothing I could ever do to free him of that. But I figured I could make the rest of the world a little gentler for him if I stayed by his side. And wouldn’t you know it? I ended up falling for the little snot. Because he’s wonderful, in ways I think he doesn’t even see himself. But I do, even if I can’t do anything about that either.
He's book-smart and clever. He gets really passionate about subjects that interest him. I could never tell him, but I could listen to him talk about history and city planning for days. I see how much effort he puts into keeping up appearances because it’s what he’s ‘supposed to’ do. Even if it’s all bullshit, you have to respect someone who puts the effort in. I just wish he could also turn off some times too, let himself breathe a little, let him be himself a little. Maybe he knows better than me that he can’t, though. Even more reason I want to be patient with him when I can.
Thanks for letting me get all that off my chest. I could never tell Emile. He’s made it perfectly clear: “Nobles don’t have the luxury of courting for love like you peasants do.” It’s always some political bullshit. Not that I think I had a chance to begin with, but that was certainly the final nail in that coffin. Oh well. It’s fine. As long as I can keep doing what little I can for him, that’s enough for me.