parisa kamali. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
multiverse) wrote2024-06-08 11:33 pm
multiverse) wrote2024-06-08 11:33 pm
ic inbox.
WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK
USERNAME:
PARISA
text 💋 audio 💋 video
WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK
USERNAME:
PARISA
text 💋 audio 💋 video
[ it’s funny, how all the people he’s been going to for help have, ultimately, cared for him in a way so sweet that it turns his stomach. yes, sure, he should get sober. yes, of course ash will hold his hand during a drug test. yes, he can make hawk cave to his demands and have him reenact a night that clearly fills hawk with disgust just because it’s embry, and embry always gets what he wants unless it’s anything he actually wants. act out, play everyone like a fiddle, collect — then spend his nights swathed in guilt at how, even now, he can be such a warped, selfish man.
parisa will tell him the truth. that he deserves this. he deserves to lose his mind, because he’s horrible, and he’s been horrible, and all the karma he doesn’t believe in is catching up with him now, or he just should’ve stayed dead. unbelievable, that the latter makes more sense to him, because karma has been pilfered by white girls in seattle who like to get freaky in bed.
but there’s a small part of him that thinks — hopes — that maybe parisa will have a real answer, something outside of his purview that’s firmly inside of hers. he enters like he usually does, expecting to see her lounging uselessly in a tragic state of overdress, but the room is empty (messy) and the shared bathroom door is less ajar than usual. ]
Are you pooping?
[ he grips the door and peeks inside, shameless, but is greeted with a sight familiar to him across his many years of reckless partying and ingesting substances with abandon, but not familiar when it comes to parisa kamali — which is, the image of her heaving into the toilet bowl in one of her designer dresses, her hair clinging both to her cheeks and the porcelain edge.
he’s there in an instant, well-versed in his role in this as he sinks down behind her and pulls her hair back from her sticky temples and her bloody — bloody? what the fuck — mouth. her pleasantly bronze skin has taken on a grayish pallor. the toilet beams back up at them, bright, bright red. embry feels immediately sick, flashes of danny johnson’s knife, flashes of hawk’s marble corpse, flashes of dag dying in his arms.
he steadies parisa from behind, careful not to extricate her from the toilet bowl lest she vomit on the rug, as he hugs her spine against his chest. she doesn’t feel injured, isn’t bleeding from anywhere he can see or feel. and yet, this is a lot of fucking blood. ]
It’s starting to feel personal — [ he noses behind her ear, her hair collected in his fist in what could be considered a very chic bun. ] How you act like a psycho every time you see me since we both died.
parisa will tell him the truth. that he deserves this. he deserves to lose his mind, because he’s horrible, and he’s been horrible, and all the karma he doesn’t believe in is catching up with him now, or he just should’ve stayed dead. unbelievable, that the latter makes more sense to him, because karma has been pilfered by white girls in seattle who like to get freaky in bed.
but there’s a small part of him that thinks — hopes — that maybe parisa will have a real answer, something outside of his purview that’s firmly inside of hers. he enters like he usually does, expecting to see her lounging uselessly in a tragic state of overdress, but the room is empty (messy) and the shared bathroom door is less ajar than usual. ]
Are you pooping?
[ he grips the door and peeks inside, shameless, but is greeted with a sight familiar to him across his many years of reckless partying and ingesting substances with abandon, but not familiar when it comes to parisa kamali — which is, the image of her heaving into the toilet bowl in one of her designer dresses, her hair clinging both to her cheeks and the porcelain edge.
he’s there in an instant, well-versed in his role in this as he sinks down behind her and pulls her hair back from her sticky temples and her bloody — bloody? what the fuck — mouth. her pleasantly bronze skin has taken on a grayish pallor. the toilet beams back up at them, bright, bright red. embry feels immediately sick, flashes of danny johnson’s knife, flashes of hawk’s marble corpse, flashes of dag dying in his arms.
he steadies parisa from behind, careful not to extricate her from the toilet bowl lest she vomit on the rug, as he hugs her spine against his chest. she doesn’t feel injured, isn’t bleeding from anywhere he can see or feel. and yet, this is a lot of fucking blood. ]
It’s starting to feel personal — [ he noses behind her ear, her hair collected in his fist in what could be considered a very chic bun. ] How you act like a psycho every time you see me since we both died.
( generally speaking, parisa is uniquely equipped to deal with intrusive thoughts. they take forms like little goons in her head, and all she has to do is dawn a helmet and armor and slay them with an ludicrously large sword. lately, however, things have been different. twice now, she's given in to the urge — a simple one at first, raw chicken in the kitchen, bloody and dripping, fresh enough from the slaughter it still had that farm scent about it. it wasn't ideal, but she did it, and that's that. puked herself sore and sick immediately after, endless echoes of gore pouring from her mouth unequal to the small amount eaten, cramping her stomach, getting her sick on top of sick. it was awful, but she figured — she just won't do that strangely uncharacteristic thing again, and all will be well.
this time, a puffy breasted sparrow had the poor misfortune of landing on her window sill. she caught it by the tweeting neck and bit into its chest, stripping meat from bone, swallowing the tiny heart, the little liver, the fattiest parts of meat whole, sucked from the bones. she tossed the carcass out the window, before skirting into the bathroom to be sick, where she's been for the last several minutes. so now she's here, again, spewing blood, again, and — embry is here. lovely.
if she could somehow cover up her sick with coy nuance, she would, but there's nothing too subtle about throwing up viscera, nor the tears racing down her face from the pain of it, one bloody hand clamped around the rim of the toilet, the other fisting at her stomach, instinctively trying to press on the pain to dull it. he's sweet to help — not even parisa is rotten enough to not be grateful, spitting miserably in the bowl, reaching up blindly to pull the flush. if she doesn't flush in between fits, it'll fill up. big disaster. )
It's only — because I hate you so much.
( it's meant to be funny. parisa doesn't hate embry, much the opposite. she vomits again, wailing miserably, but finally feels some relief in the latest go around — finished? maybe? she slithers to the side of him, out of his grasp, curling up in a fetal position on the ground so she can rest her burning cheek on the cold tile near his knee. her hands are bloody so she doesn't reach for him, but with her black hair splayed in her face she looks up at embry, wet eyes a little amused before she shuts them, groaning. )
Why do you always see me at my worst? We should get new roommates. I'll take your boyfriend.
this time, a puffy breasted sparrow had the poor misfortune of landing on her window sill. she caught it by the tweeting neck and bit into its chest, stripping meat from bone, swallowing the tiny heart, the little liver, the fattiest parts of meat whole, sucked from the bones. she tossed the carcass out the window, before skirting into the bathroom to be sick, where she's been for the last several minutes. so now she's here, again, spewing blood, again, and — embry is here. lovely.
if she could somehow cover up her sick with coy nuance, she would, but there's nothing too subtle about throwing up viscera, nor the tears racing down her face from the pain of it, one bloody hand clamped around the rim of the toilet, the other fisting at her stomach, instinctively trying to press on the pain to dull it. he's sweet to help — not even parisa is rotten enough to not be grateful, spitting miserably in the bowl, reaching up blindly to pull the flush. if she doesn't flush in between fits, it'll fill up. big disaster. )
It's only — because I hate you so much.
( it's meant to be funny. parisa doesn't hate embry, much the opposite. she vomits again, wailing miserably, but finally feels some relief in the latest go around — finished? maybe? she slithers to the side of him, out of his grasp, curling up in a fetal position on the ground so she can rest her burning cheek on the cold tile near his knee. her hands are bloody so she doesn't reach for him, but with her black hair splayed in her face she looks up at embry, wet eyes a little amused before she shuts them, groaning. )
Why do you always see me at my worst? We should get new roommates. I'll take your boyfriend.
[ things in the house are constantly getting stranger, in bad, uncomfortable ways, which says a lot because embry hasn't exactly lived a polished lifestyle. or maybe he has, and he's just starting to realize that being a sexually deviant war veteran has left him uniquely unequipped with coping with finding corpses in beds and watching a girl purge blood into the toilet. why couldn't it be death via guns and bombs? why couldn't it be someone calling him a faggot so he could laugh in their face and then break their nose? (technically, danny johnson has that part covered.)
ah, yes. parisa's sharp tongue does exactly what he wants it to do, which is soothe over all the nice things over people have said to him. ]
I hate you, too.
[ he slides her hair from her face again, fingers brushing the curve of her cheek, then pulls a towel down from one of the golden beams above and starts wiping her hands, cleaning her palms first and then going finger by finger, red stains soaked into her nail beds. your boyfriend sets his teeth absurdly on edge, which then splashes him with guilt. his first instinct is still denial, and he thinks maybe it will always be that, because how can you erase fifteen years of hiding, of lying, of knowing that the one happy thing he never thought he'd find is also the thing that would ruin the person he loves most? he's meant for so much greater than you.
ash isn't even his boyfriend anymore, really. he's his husband, laws be damned, and embry hasn't said a word about it to anyone. he's just walking around wearing his ring and trying to make sense of what it means to belong to a man like ash colchester.
well. parisa knows, now. ]
What the hell is wrong with you? [ it's obvious as soon as he says it, hitting him like a wet dick smacked across his face. ] You're different, too. You died and you're fucking different, just like me, just like Hawk. You're fucked up, too.
[ we should just kill ourselves again is the part he doesn't say, because. his panic is not productive. ]
ah, yes. parisa's sharp tongue does exactly what he wants it to do, which is soothe over all the nice things over people have said to him. ]
I hate you, too.
[ he slides her hair from her face again, fingers brushing the curve of her cheek, then pulls a towel down from one of the golden beams above and starts wiping her hands, cleaning her palms first and then going finger by finger, red stains soaked into her nail beds. your boyfriend sets his teeth absurdly on edge, which then splashes him with guilt. his first instinct is still denial, and he thinks maybe it will always be that, because how can you erase fifteen years of hiding, of lying, of knowing that the one happy thing he never thought he'd find is also the thing that would ruin the person he loves most? he's meant for so much greater than you.
ash isn't even his boyfriend anymore, really. he's his husband, laws be damned, and embry hasn't said a word about it to anyone. he's just walking around wearing his ring and trying to make sense of what it means to belong to a man like ash colchester.
well. parisa knows, now. ]
What the hell is wrong with you? [ it's obvious as soon as he says it, hitting him like a wet dick smacked across his face. ] You're different, too. You died and you're fucking different, just like me, just like Hawk. You're fucked up, too.
[ we should just kill ourselves again is the part he doesn't say, because. his panic is not productive. ]
( it makes her smile a little, through her paled face and bloody lips, to imagine a world in which that was true — or truer, maybe. everyone hates parisa a little, which she's used to and knows to expect, but she has it on good authority embry has a marshmallow core where peaches usually have stones, a natural inkling towards affection, usually covered up by his own shitty behaviors. case in point: people who hate you don't usually mop up the vile crusts of your hands, stained with bird-blood and sick-blood, like it's not a bother. reina wouldn't do it. alina wouldn't do it. that's not the self-loathing speaking — that's fact. embry, despite contrary measures, is a sweetheart.
so, the marriage isn't surprising. she luckily never taught embry how to disguise his thoughts, so it's all blatant in the forefront of his mind, the wind wisps of his voice following the salty sea air, i don't know how to make anyone happy. she sits up with a warbling groan, knocking into him with her knees, jutting out her chin in a silent request for him to clean up her face, too. a ring on his finger — it's very sweet. but his mind is as frosty pacific northwest as ever, and parisa is more aware than your average whore that marriages came be fleeting, temporary little pit stops. embry's never struck her as a one-man kind of guy, but then, she could be imposing the bias of herself on the person most similar to her. familiarity but association does not a pattern make.
still, she's polite enough to offer, ) Congratulations. ( and sound sincere about it, hand weakly squeezing his knee.
ever more interesting that the prison of commitment, parisa's eyes focus as best they can to his words, eyebrows pulling together. something happened to embry and she didn't know about it? well, parisa, that's what happens when you shut people out. externally, she's completely unbothered, even casual in her neutral mocking expression, not holding the same gravitas as usual considering how sickly she looks. internally, she's punching embry in the nose — if she didn't know aggression from women was a wildly inefficient way of getting what she wants, she might consider it, noodle limbs slapping against a war studied american soldier. )
Interesting. ( her tongue clicks in thought. ) Different, sure. We'll go with that. You've seen my predicament — what happened to you?
so, the marriage isn't surprising. she luckily never taught embry how to disguise his thoughts, so it's all blatant in the forefront of his mind, the wind wisps of his voice following the salty sea air, i don't know how to make anyone happy. she sits up with a warbling groan, knocking into him with her knees, jutting out her chin in a silent request for him to clean up her face, too. a ring on his finger — it's very sweet. but his mind is as frosty pacific northwest as ever, and parisa is more aware than your average whore that marriages came be fleeting, temporary little pit stops. embry's never struck her as a one-man kind of guy, but then, she could be imposing the bias of herself on the person most similar to her. familiarity but association does not a pattern make.
still, she's polite enough to offer, ) Congratulations. ( and sound sincere about it, hand weakly squeezing his knee.
ever more interesting that the prison of commitment, parisa's eyes focus as best they can to his words, eyebrows pulling together. something happened to embry and she didn't know about it? well, parisa, that's what happens when you shut people out. externally, she's completely unbothered, even casual in her neutral mocking expression, not holding the same gravitas as usual considering how sickly she looks. internally, she's punching embry in the nose — if she didn't know aggression from women was a wildly inefficient way of getting what she wants, she might consider it, noodle limbs slapping against a war studied american soldier. )
Interesting. ( her tongue clicks in thought. ) Different, sure. We'll go with that. You've seen my predicament — what happened to you?
so uh
weird question
is this p. kamali or mommy? ( cause the polaroids he's found have him curious. )
weird question
is this p. kamali or mommy? ( cause the polaroids he's found have him curious. )
( well, )
I suppose that depends on who "Mop" is.
I suppose that depends on who "Mop" is.
Only men with deviousness in mind call at this time, my beloved Professor. I'll be there soon.
( devious or not, it's hardly a huge ask to find her way to emmrich's bedroom, a path she makes often enough that she could get there blindly, even turned around, lost in the dark. ordinarily parisa has manners about such things, but she and emmrich have surpassed the need for knocking, and so she helps herself inside, a slight springiness to her step. she gives him a nod in greeting. )
I do hope I'm not in trouble.
( devious or not, it's hardly a huge ask to find her way to emmrich's bedroom, a path she makes often enough that she could get there blindly, even turned around, lost in the dark. ordinarily parisa has manners about such things, but she and emmrich have surpassed the need for knocking, and so she helps herself inside, a slight springiness to her step. she gives him a nod in greeting. )
I do hope I'm not in trouble.
[ The pieces come together like clouds merging, distinct thoughts and ideas slowly forming into a more complete picture, a path forward.
When Alina's post appears on the network, he spends nearly an hour attempting to peel it apart, reading and rereading her description of the ritual she'd performed to put Paul right. There's only one course of action available to him if he intends to study the rite, to replicate it: the duration of one cycle of the moon, a little blood given over every day by someone who's already touched the veil hanging over this place, study of both the plant and the veins of one afflicted. But whose blood? He's already halfway to an answer by the time he reads Alicent's message. Not Nick, not Ash, not Armand, not someone he's already responsible for bleeding. (Not Parisa, his most beloved — he's brought her close enough to trouble, has he not? Though there's no doubt in his mind that she would give him her blood more than willingly, if he would but ask.)
The hours after that, he spends thinking through what comes next. Poison, perhaps. The blade of a knife through his neck, across his wrists. A rope. An early visit to the bottom of the lake. All the while, he wonders what to tell Parisa. If he means to tell her at all. If it would spare her more grief to be aware, rather than finding his lifeless body.
(It doesn't occur to him that he has yet to feel any fear at the prospect of attempting to cross over.)
He settles on confession. He's pledged to share eternity with her, hasn't he? What kind of lover would he be if he kept this from her?
In the minutes between her last text and her arrival, he prepares a silver tray, laying a bottle of poison, a straight razor, and a length of rope side-by-side. For the sake of not greeting her with such a sight, he places it on the bathroom counter, out of view as he comes back into his bedroom to greet her. She'll sense it regardless, he thinks, when the ease with which she passes in and out of his suite matches the ease with which she can read his mind, but— ]
Never, my darling. [ At least, never with him. ] If anything, I expect I'll be the one begging your apology by the end of the night.
[ He takes her hands as soon as he's close enough, leading her to the nearest armchair. ]
There was ... something I wanted to tell you.
When Alina's post appears on the network, he spends nearly an hour attempting to peel it apart, reading and rereading her description of the ritual she'd performed to put Paul right. There's only one course of action available to him if he intends to study the rite, to replicate it: the duration of one cycle of the moon, a little blood given over every day by someone who's already touched the veil hanging over this place, study of both the plant and the veins of one afflicted. But whose blood? He's already halfway to an answer by the time he reads Alicent's message. Not Nick, not Ash, not Armand, not someone he's already responsible for bleeding. (Not Parisa, his most beloved — he's brought her close enough to trouble, has he not? Though there's no doubt in his mind that she would give him her blood more than willingly, if he would but ask.)
The hours after that, he spends thinking through what comes next. Poison, perhaps. The blade of a knife through his neck, across his wrists. A rope. An early visit to the bottom of the lake. All the while, he wonders what to tell Parisa. If he means to tell her at all. If it would spare her more grief to be aware, rather than finding his lifeless body.
(It doesn't occur to him that he has yet to feel any fear at the prospect of attempting to cross over.)
He settles on confession. He's pledged to share eternity with her, hasn't he? What kind of lover would he be if he kept this from her?
In the minutes between her last text and her arrival, he prepares a silver tray, laying a bottle of poison, a straight razor, and a length of rope side-by-side. For the sake of not greeting her with such a sight, he places it on the bathroom counter, out of view as he comes back into his bedroom to greet her. She'll sense it regardless, he thinks, when the ease with which she passes in and out of his suite matches the ease with which she can read his mind, but— ]
Never, my darling. [ At least, never with him. ] If anything, I expect I'll be the one begging your apology by the end of the night.
[ He takes her hands as soon as he's close enough, leading her to the nearest armchair. ]
There was ... something I wanted to tell you.
You're in luck, I feel very much like saying yes, lately.
What can I do for you?
What can I do for you?
[ The collective minds of the manor community make up a heavy tapestry of sound and sensation, a murmuring hive, an orchestra perpetually tuning up in the background of Armand's awareness. He's learned to ignore it over the centuries, only wandering amongst the players when he chooses, trailing his fingertips over the warp and weft of them.
And now, a thread is snagged. A note is sour. It takes him a moment to locate it, to find the familiar thrum of her heartbeat. For a moment he considers it, holding his awareness of her in his mind, studying the fissures, the places where she's allowed herself to bleed out into the water. ]
Something is broken.
And now, a thread is snagged. A note is sour. It takes him a moment to locate it, to find the familiar thrum of her heartbeat. For a moment he considers it, holding his awareness of her in his mind, studying the fissures, the places where she's allowed herself to bleed out into the water. ]
Something is broken.
( the room is empty now, luckily enough, but the bottle is almost empty which is less fortunate. she’ll have to leave soon to find a new one, and then where will she go? she’s not sure. surely not back here — there’s nothing left for her, but sketches emmrich had made of and for her, even hours ago, when he was still alive.
she’s worked at keeping her walls up, blocking people out. but she’s drunk and a little carefree, and armand has crept in like satan’s serpent, beguiling and sweet. it’s anyone’s guess if she’d rather be alone — she is, in a sense, and not in another. regardless, he’s here now, which isn’t to say she can’t push him out, but that she lacks the will to do so. parisa lets out a humorless half-laugh. )
Yes, I suppose it is.
( emmrich’s windpipe or her heart? either way. )
Do you imagine we’ll ever be forgiven for the things that we do? The worst of it.
she’s worked at keeping her walls up, blocking people out. but she’s drunk and a little carefree, and armand has crept in like satan’s serpent, beguiling and sweet. it’s anyone’s guess if she’d rather be alone — she is, in a sense, and not in another. regardless, he’s here now, which isn’t to say she can’t push him out, but that she lacks the will to do so. parisa lets out a humorless half-laugh. )
Yes, I suppose it is.
( emmrich’s windpipe or her heart? either way. )
Do you imagine we’ll ever be forgiven for the things that we do? The worst of it.
[ There's the shape of it, vaguely. It's death, because it's always death, their mutual addiction, the dark star around which they hopelessly orbit. Armand, watching the moonlight as it climbs the wall of Daniel's study, considers the vastness of that distance. The deep black chill of what they both know to be the truth. ]
Not in this life.
[ He closes his eyes, adds: ]
Bi-eshq neshāt-o tarab afzun nashavad,
Bi-eshq vojud khub-o mowzun nashavad,
Sad qatre ze abr agar be daryā rizad,
Bi-jonbesh-e eshq dorr-e maknun nashavad.
[ To be everything with him and nothing without him. To be willing to do anything. If nothing else, he understands that terrible, wonderful devotion. ]
Not in this life.
[ He closes his eyes, adds: ]
Bi-eshq neshāt-o tarab afzun nashavad,
Bi-eshq vojud khub-o mowzun nashavad,
Sad qatre ze abr agar be daryā rizad,
Bi-jonbesh-e eshq dorr-e maknun nashavad.
[ To be everything with him and nothing without him. To be willing to do anything. If nothing else, he understands that terrible, wonderful devotion. ]
( ordinarily, there would be coyness. of course, you can imagine, i wanted him to die. there are life insurance policies here dorian, did you know that? why else would i be with him?
instead, the wound is raw and parisa is drunk, miserably. so. )
I think this whole plan is fucking ridiculous. If you’re lacking in anger, I can spare you some of mine.
instead, the wound is raw and parisa is drunk, miserably. so. )
I think this whole plan is fucking ridiculous. If you’re lacking in anger, I can spare you some of mine.
Small blessing that we're in agreement, at least, or I would have had to knock some sense into you.
[ Dorian doesn't know Parisa well at all, but if she's angry--well, he can only imagine what else she's feeling, in the wake of Emmrich's endeavor. ]
What can I do? For you, I mean. We'll get to him later.
[ Dorian doesn't know Parisa well at all, but if she's angry--well, he can only imagine what else she's feeling, in the wake of Emmrich's endeavor. ]
What can I do? For you, I mean. We'll get to him later.
[ In the days immediately following his full resurrection, Emmrich begins the process of feeding the fruit of the whitethorn tree. But there's another ritual that begins in conjunction: a renewal of his oath of devotion, built out of those sweet words — I've fallen quite in love with you — and the pang he'd felt when, just before everything had gone black, he'd seen something like panic or fear flicker across her face. That had hurt. Not death, not suffocation, but the suddenly very real confrontation of what he'd done to her in asking her to join him.
Even more so than before, he rarely lets her out of his sight, to the point that it seems like a near miracle when he leads her, a handful of days after his return, back to his suite. (A little silly, to stage this here rather than in her room, but the gesture is an extreme one, and one for which disturbing the ecosystem of her space seems like a high cost.) Nearly the entire space is covered in he loves me purple roses — when had he had the time? — but when Emmrich turns to Parisa, the corsage in his hand has been built around a delicate bloom of Shroud's Kiss. Who knows how he'd gotten his hands on it, but there it is, practically glowing under's Parisa's gaze as he offers it to her along with a carefully folded letter. Would you attend the prom with me, my dear? As if there'd ever be a world in which he wouldn't choose her.
As for the letter— ]
Even more so than before, he rarely lets her out of his sight, to the point that it seems like a near miracle when he leads her, a handful of days after his return, back to his suite. (A little silly, to stage this here rather than in her room, but the gesture is an extreme one, and one for which disturbing the ecosystem of her space seems like a high cost.) Nearly the entire space is covered in he loves me purple roses — when had he had the time? — but when Emmrich turns to Parisa, the corsage in his hand has been built around a delicate bloom of Shroud's Kiss. Who knows how he'd gotten his hands on it, but there it is, practically glowing under's Parisa's gaze as he offers it to her along with a carefully folded letter. Would you attend the prom with me, my dear? As if there'd ever be a world in which he wouldn't choose her.
As for the letter— ]
My darling, my life,
I've imagined my death time and time again. My life cut short by an ill-fated adventure, by an act of nature beyond my control. By war, perhaps, or the irony of never returning from the rite that would mark my ascension into lichdom. In each imagined circumstance, I was alone. The void frightened me terribly, as I knew not what lay beyond. I know, now. I would say that it's difficult to describe how one thinks, as a soul removed from its vessel, but I suppose I needn't search for the words when you know the sensation as well as I do — better, perhaps, for having known it first. It is strangely inchoate, isn't it? As though seeing things in colors rather than through words. My point is, I think I followed the shades of you. I wasn't afraid when we went to bed, and I wasn't afraid then, either. Some might say there's no reason for a soul or spirit to feel fear, but I think we both know that isn't truly the case. There are things in this world worth fearing.
I'm certain you could tell, that day, that I had thought again and again of how best to spare you. And yet, in your shoes, I'd have done the same thing. Brewed your tea myself, stayed with you until time came to bury you in the earth. It was selfish of me to expect otherwise. Can you forgive me my foolishness? You told me you love me — and, fool that I am, I wonder if I allowed that moment to pass too quickly, because you'd made it clear to me before in so many ways. That doesn't mean you can't still be angry with me. And you should be, when after all you've done for me — dressing me, loving me, killing me — I repaid you with grief. Well, grief and loneliness. As tempting as it is to separate the two, I've begun to think they're inextricably intertwined. Even in life, I've grown used to the color of you ever in my periphery, if not the center of my focus. I expect it, desire it, savor it. What to do, when you were no longer with me? I thought Manfred extraordinary for his drive, hence my placing him into a skeleton. I still think him extraordinary, but I understand him better. I think you would have still treated me fondly, were I but a wisp trailing in your shadow.
So, far from disapproving, the entire ordeal has only made me love you more. There's no part of you that could ever repulse me — affection aside, you forget I've dealt day in and day out with the fine matter and tissue that make up the mortal body. A little bile is nothing, though I'd free you from the cycle if I could. Which brings us back to this experiment's first figure, though that's not what I mean to spend this time on. (And I told you, didn't I, that my heart would still burn for you when we're both naught but bones? When no physical plane can contain my love for you save through the current of magic?)
But enough of questions. I've one more request to make of you, if you'd entertain the thought. You mentioned the gold I wear — I'd like to know if there's such a token you'd part with for me. I told you, I think, that each piece I wear bears a significance to me, from the bracelet given to me upon my joining the ranks of the Mourn Watch, to the ring that was once my father's. My eternity, each minute and hour, each day and year that stretches out since the moment we met, belongs to you. I'd wear something in honor of that, if you'd allow it. In one sense, I suppose I already bear a mark — if I gave you my death, does the mark of it upon my chest not belong to you? But I'd request something else, still; something you choose, rather than something I cast upon you.
Thank you, regardless. Thank you for loving me.تو رویایی هستی که به واقعیت پیوست
Emmrich
( its been a strange few days, although it tracks that everything wouldn't be business as usual post a speedy death and revival within a relationship. parisa is almost too busy clinging to emmrich to notice that he's clinging back to her — but he is, and she's grateful. time heals these kinds of things, she has to assume. there's a thorn between them in a spot that used to be smooth, supple flesh, but the irritation lessens day in and day out, and with enough time, even her fingernails might stop biting into his back to keep him grounded into her. one can only imagine.
parisa knows better than to be wowed by romantic gestures — of course, that doesn't stop her intake of breath at the sight of emmrich's room, less because she's impressed by flowers, and more because she's impressed every time emmrich unveils how thoughtful he is. he listens, which is a novelty. unheard of in her century's dating pool. the air in his room smells of roses and emmrich's cologne, and parisa toys with a nearby petal while emmrich approaches her, eyes going down to the corsage. recognizing it.
she smiles, small and secret, fingers scooping up his letter. she's been anticipating it since leaving her own, cracking open the seal, lifting a brow at him. ) We'll see.
( like her yes might sit in the balance of how good his letter is. like he's ever written a letter that was not good in his life.
generally a speedy reader, parisa instead gives his letter the attention it deserves, reading in front of him, looking line by line at each and every word etched in his lovely script. she breathes out at the right points, mouth twisting in wryness she tries to bite down, feeling her throat go a little dry, palms a little sweaty. love is like this — disarming, even dangerous. there's a real threat of swooning somewhere inside her. at the end of it, she thumbs across his farsi words, before folding the letter back into thirds and slapping it on her open palm, before setting it aside looking up at him. )
Right. Down here. ( she gestures to the floor in front of her. ) One knee.
( less to instruct him, more because it's easier to be on a level with him like this — her hands reaching out, cupping his cheeks stepping in close enough to him that he can almost rest his chin on her stomach. parisa's voice is melted caramel soft, eyes slightly shiny. maybe it's the light. )
Grieving you is no hardship. It's — ( she lets out a breath. ) it's like loving you. Who, with any sense to them, could help it? You're so ...
( so addictive, she thinks. so stable. so intellectual. so romantic and so, so kind. nothing serves him justice to the way she feels, more akin to an overfull cup than any voided emptiness from his death. rather than answer with words, she props up a heeled foot on his bent knee, finding the latch to a chain wrapped around her ankle — dainty and feminine, one thin, gold anklet, interrupted in equal distances by perfect, small rubies. she holds it out by the latch, chain dangling, in front of him. )
I'll go with you, my love. And I'll wear a devastating dress.
parisa knows better than to be wowed by romantic gestures — of course, that doesn't stop her intake of breath at the sight of emmrich's room, less because she's impressed by flowers, and more because she's impressed every time emmrich unveils how thoughtful he is. he listens, which is a novelty. unheard of in her century's dating pool. the air in his room smells of roses and emmrich's cologne, and parisa toys with a nearby petal while emmrich approaches her, eyes going down to the corsage. recognizing it.
she smiles, small and secret, fingers scooping up his letter. she's been anticipating it since leaving her own, cracking open the seal, lifting a brow at him. ) We'll see.
( like her yes might sit in the balance of how good his letter is. like he's ever written a letter that was not good in his life.
generally a speedy reader, parisa instead gives his letter the attention it deserves, reading in front of him, looking line by line at each and every word etched in his lovely script. she breathes out at the right points, mouth twisting in wryness she tries to bite down, feeling her throat go a little dry, palms a little sweaty. love is like this — disarming, even dangerous. there's a real threat of swooning somewhere inside her. at the end of it, she thumbs across his farsi words, before folding the letter back into thirds and slapping it on her open palm, before setting it aside looking up at him. )
Right. Down here. ( she gestures to the floor in front of her. ) One knee.
( less to instruct him, more because it's easier to be on a level with him like this — her hands reaching out, cupping his cheeks stepping in close enough to him that he can almost rest his chin on her stomach. parisa's voice is melted caramel soft, eyes slightly shiny. maybe it's the light. )
Grieving you is no hardship. It's — ( she lets out a breath. ) it's like loving you. Who, with any sense to them, could help it? You're so ...
( so addictive, she thinks. so stable. so intellectual. so romantic and so, so kind. nothing serves him justice to the way she feels, more akin to an overfull cup than any voided emptiness from his death. rather than answer with words, she props up a heeled foot on his bent knee, finding the latch to a chain wrapped around her ankle — dainty and feminine, one thin, gold anklet, interrupted in equal distances by perfect, small rubies. she holds it out by the latch, chain dangling, in front of him. )
I'll go with you, my love. And I'll wear a devastating dress.
[ For thirty days, they feed his blood to the fruit of the whitethorn tree. On the final day, Parisa consumes it, as she had consumed his death a month before. A gift to him. A favor, and proof of patience beyond measure. But the patch of pallid skin, visible under the parting of his open shirt, remains. Grey and cold as marble — proof of his soul's departure, however brief, from his body.
When she looks up at him, he smiles, the expression only a little wan, as he leans down to kiss her cheek. I suppose we'll have to try again next month. (They draw a vial of his blood in preparation, this time, rather than trying it fresh each day.)
He's lucky. Preternaturally so, one might say, when so many of the others who've died and returned suffered consequences beyond their control, with Parisa among their less fortunate number. Though he feels a spike of something like fear when he realizes the patch of dead flesh has begun to grow, there's something like understanding on Daisy's features upon their next visit. When he offers her a prayer, green flames lighting up the crypt as he bows his head, he feels a little of his vitality returning — and when they return to his suite, an inspection reveals that the tendrils of growth have gone. The touch of death isn't gone, but at the very least, it's no worse than it was when it first appeared.
And it doesn't hamper him, not really. He can still breathe, still move, still love — most would never know something was wrong, so long as he keeps his shirt buttoned.
He accompanies Parisa to the circus the first night it's in operation, her hand in his arm except when she decides there's a prize she'd like, and it becomes his natural task to win it from the according booth. Nothing, he tells her, in comparison to the time he'd spend entertaining the Lords of Fortune in the Hall of Valor. She's holding one such prize — a plush rabbit (practically her height, he observes) with a pink ribbon about its neck — when they take their turn on the ferris wheel, too early on in the circus' tenure to know exactly what will happen but expecting something, regardless.
It's perhaps the only time he's ever uttered the word stop, carried on a laugh as they reach the peak of the wheel. He later describes it as a rather humiliating bout of vertigo, his face going pale even as he seems to be nothing but amused at the situation — at her skirt hiked up around her waist, her weight on his lap as his hands white-knuckle grasp the seat below them. I'll make it up to you, he adds, when we come down.
And he does, or at least tries to, multiple times. Once, with his head between her legs. Again, pressed behind her, his hand spidering up the front of her chest. And again, and again — all on solid, firm ground.
She sees something like anger on his face for the first time when the month comes to an end. It takes him a moment, as it does everyone, to understand what's happening, that whatever the Baskervilles have done, it's hurting her. The cough in her lungs, the blood in her mouth — it turns his gaze icy and his brow sharp. Though her touch doesn't stall his thoughts of vengeance — molten in his chest for how new they are — there's no world in which he'd leave her side. So when her hand finds his cheek, there's no resistance as he bows his head, the shell of his ear coming level with her mouth.
Whatever she tells him, it's for the two of them alone.
But it sends the dulling locket clattering to the ground, its weight lifted from her shoulders — as her own weight is lifted carefully from the ground in Emmrich's arms, his steps keeping the same, steady pace until he reaches his room, until he can tuck her carefully into bed. He's careful — gentle, as he always is when they're alone together — when he wipes the blood away from the corner of the mouth, when he checks her forehead and her chest, as though monitoring the end of a cold. And he's just as tender with her when he slips a bracelet from his wrist to place it about hers: a circle of gold from which dangles a delicate chain, patterned coins hung upon it.
Something, he says, to return the favor. ]
When she looks up at him, he smiles, the expression only a little wan, as he leans down to kiss her cheek. I suppose we'll have to try again next month. (They draw a vial of his blood in preparation, this time, rather than trying it fresh each day.)
He's lucky. Preternaturally so, one might say, when so many of the others who've died and returned suffered consequences beyond their control, with Parisa among their less fortunate number. Though he feels a spike of something like fear when he realizes the patch of dead flesh has begun to grow, there's something like understanding on Daisy's features upon their next visit. When he offers her a prayer, green flames lighting up the crypt as he bows his head, he feels a little of his vitality returning — and when they return to his suite, an inspection reveals that the tendrils of growth have gone. The touch of death isn't gone, but at the very least, it's no worse than it was when it first appeared.
And it doesn't hamper him, not really. He can still breathe, still move, still love — most would never know something was wrong, so long as he keeps his shirt buttoned.
He accompanies Parisa to the circus the first night it's in operation, her hand in his arm except when she decides there's a prize she'd like, and it becomes his natural task to win it from the according booth. Nothing, he tells her, in comparison to the time he'd spend entertaining the Lords of Fortune in the Hall of Valor. She's holding one such prize — a plush rabbit (practically her height, he observes) with a pink ribbon about its neck — when they take their turn on the ferris wheel, too early on in the circus' tenure to know exactly what will happen but expecting something, regardless.
It's perhaps the only time he's ever uttered the word stop, carried on a laugh as they reach the peak of the wheel. He later describes it as a rather humiliating bout of vertigo, his face going pale even as he seems to be nothing but amused at the situation — at her skirt hiked up around her waist, her weight on his lap as his hands white-knuckle grasp the seat below them. I'll make it up to you, he adds, when we come down.
And he does, or at least tries to, multiple times. Once, with his head between her legs. Again, pressed behind her, his hand spidering up the front of her chest. And again, and again — all on solid, firm ground.
She sees something like anger on his face for the first time when the month comes to an end. It takes him a moment, as it does everyone, to understand what's happening, that whatever the Baskervilles have done, it's hurting her. The cough in her lungs, the blood in her mouth — it turns his gaze icy and his brow sharp. Though her touch doesn't stall his thoughts of vengeance — molten in his chest for how new they are — there's no world in which he'd leave her side. So when her hand finds his cheek, there's no resistance as he bows his head, the shell of his ear coming level with her mouth.
Whatever she tells him, it's for the two of them alone.
But it sends the dulling locket clattering to the ground, its weight lifted from her shoulders — as her own weight is lifted carefully from the ground in Emmrich's arms, his steps keeping the same, steady pace until he reaches his room, until he can tuck her carefully into bed. He's careful — gentle, as he always is when they're alone together — when he wipes the blood away from the corner of the mouth, when he checks her forehead and her chest, as though monitoring the end of a cold. And he's just as tender with her when he slips a bracelet from his wrist to place it about hers: a circle of gold from which dangles a delicate chain, patterned coins hung upon it.
Something, he says, to return the favor. ]
Edited 2025-05-17 03:08 (UTC)
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