( it's a byproduct of knowing someone so well — the telepathic part of her can feel the shape of his thoughts as he builds to his point, and the part of her that is and remains his lover makes the jumps before he even gets there. emmrich and his fucking nobility. emmrich, guilty about a thing parisa aided him in the doing. emmrich, a scholar on one hand, and a fixer on the other, with a solution dropped in his lap. her expression isn't angry when she jumps up, dropping his hand — she's not sure what it's doing. her mind is in a marathon race to figure out the correct argument on how to get him not to do this. he isn't telling her this now because it's an idea, because if the weather's nice he might think about a stroll around the lake and killing himself next weekend, or if he has nothing going on he'll consider it in a month, just in time for easter. he's planning on doing it now, today. imminently. this is a warning, a goodbye. parisa was probably the last check mark on a list of finality. the first things?
she stomps around the room. how would emmrich do it? a dagger in the bedside table? she rips it open — no, he's too pragmatic for elongated suffering, for untidy lines. quick, then. a loaded pistol in the wardrobe? she leaves the doors and drawers open and askew as she walks around, trying to find his method. eventually, she comes to the bathroom, to see his laid out plan, and breaks her emotive silence with a ) No. ( stomping back into the room with the bottle of poison in her hand, jaw clenched, glaring at him. ) Emmrich, no.
( approaching him, she's the one who gets on her knees, a hand cupped on the back of his calf, the other shaking the bottle at him. )
I bare as much of the guilt as you do in this — am I sorry? For these people who killed me, who humiliated me, who turned me into a monster? Emmrich. ( she doesn't need to tell him toying with death is dangerous — a necromancer would probably know better than a telepath. and yet, other than danny johnson, the only person she's ever known to take their own life is on her knees in front of him, near to pleading that he not do the same. a hypocrite. blinded by love.
at the same time — her eyebrows pinch, the first real sign of the emotion in her heart on her face. sadness. this has always been inevitable — parisa knows that. emmrich was always going to die, one way or the other, and she realizes that with a start, abruptly dropping her gaze, bottle cradled in her lap. her thumbnail picks at the label. was it always going to feel like this? or is this some product of knowing he's dying for a group of people who only think twice about him to scorn him, instead of as a tool for his own ascension? looking back at him, her expression sets in grim determination. )
I know you've made up your mind. I can sense your resolve, despite it all. But I'll be damned — damned, Emmrich, before I let you do this alone. ( she gestures with the bottle again. ) You let me take care of this. It's the only way you won't lose me.
no subject
she stomps around the room. how would emmrich do it? a dagger in the bedside table? she rips it open — no, he's too pragmatic for elongated suffering, for untidy lines. quick, then. a loaded pistol in the wardrobe? she leaves the doors and drawers open and askew as she walks around, trying to find his method. eventually, she comes to the bathroom, to see his laid out plan, and breaks her emotive silence with a ) No. ( stomping back into the room with the bottle of poison in her hand, jaw clenched, glaring at him. ) Emmrich, no.
( approaching him, she's the one who gets on her knees, a hand cupped on the back of his calf, the other shaking the bottle at him. )
I bare as much of the guilt as you do in this — am I sorry? For these people who killed me, who humiliated me, who turned me into a monster? Emmrich. ( she doesn't need to tell him toying with death is dangerous — a necromancer would probably know better than a telepath. and yet, other than danny johnson, the only person she's ever known to take their own life is on her knees in front of him, near to pleading that he not do the same. a hypocrite. blinded by love.
at the same time — her eyebrows pinch, the first real sign of the emotion in her heart on her face. sadness. this has always been inevitable — parisa knows that. emmrich was always going to die, one way or the other, and she realizes that with a start, abruptly dropping her gaze, bottle cradled in her lap. her thumbnail picks at the label. was it always going to feel like this? or is this some product of knowing he's dying for a group of people who only think twice about him to scorn him, instead of as a tool for his own ascension? looking back at him, her expression sets in grim determination. )
I know you've made up your mind. I can sense your resolve, despite it all. But I'll be damned — damned, Emmrich, before I let you do this alone. ( she gestures with the bottle again. ) You let me take care of this. It's the only way you won't lose me.