[ It's telling that a man like Emmrich β ever studious, ever analytical, ready for every possibility β hadn't tried to predict how this moment would play out. It had seemed like a disservice to Parisa, something that would trivialize her emotions when that's the last thing he ever wants to do. So he startles, a little, when she gets to her feet, eyes widening as he watches her move through the room like a storm cloud. It's not fair to her. He knows that, as well as he knows that this is the best option. (Though how can it be a best option when it still hurts her?)
That's the trouble, isn't it, with loving someone so much? The way it carves into him like a blade when she gets on her knees, when he sees the look in her eyes, when she calls herself a monster. There's a darker, deeper part of him that thinks he'd burn away anyone who'd ever hurt her with cleansing flame, judgment already passed through her eyes, but that's not the point here, just as it isn't the point that he'd say she'd merely given him the knife, that he'd plunged it into the heart of this place. His expression twists β almost a flinch β as he leans forward, reaching out to cup her cheek. ]
Parisa. [ He breathes in. ] I don't want you to be sorry.
[ Not sin-eating, not exactly, but a reminder of what he can sometimes lose sight of with his head caught in the clouds of the Fade. Even now, the faintest hint of sadness upon her lovely features (the way her glare fizzles out, becomes a glimmer) flays him open. They'll both die, eventually. That's the price of eternity. He'd been so scared of it, once, afraid that he'd cross that lonely river, never to return. Then, in the crypt, the tenor of that fear had changed. He'd become afraid to lose her, the same way he sees, now, that she's afraid of losing him. ]
Sad qalb ham baraaye resaandan-e hameye eshq-e man be to kheili kam ast.
[ The pad of his thumb brushes gently over the rise of her cheek. He doesn't need to say that he doesn't want to lose her. When he speaks next, it's not with the intention of giving a gift, though it comes across that way, anyway: the greatest gift a necromancer could give. Rather, he means it to be grateful, that someone in this worldβ that she would hold his life in her hands, would tend that fragile flame. ]
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That's the trouble, isn't it, with loving someone so much? The way it carves into him like a blade when she gets on her knees, when he sees the look in her eyes, when she calls herself a monster. There's a darker, deeper part of him that thinks he'd burn away anyone who'd ever hurt her with cleansing flame, judgment already passed through her eyes, but that's not the point here, just as it isn't the point that he'd say she'd merely given him the knife, that he'd plunged it into the heart of this place. His expression twists β almost a flinch β as he leans forward, reaching out to cup her cheek. ]
Parisa. [ He breathes in. ] I don't want you to be sorry.
[ Not sin-eating, not exactly, but a reminder of what he can sometimes lose sight of with his head caught in the clouds of the Fade. Even now, the faintest hint of sadness upon her lovely features (the way her glare fizzles out, becomes a glimmer) flays him open. They'll both die, eventually. That's the price of eternity. He'd been so scared of it, once, afraid that he'd cross that lonely river, never to return. Then, in the crypt, the tenor of that fear had changed. He'd become afraid to lose her, the same way he sees, now, that she's afraid of losing him. ]
Sad qalb ham baraaye resaandan-e hameye eshq-e man be to kheili kam ast.
[ The pad of his thumb brushes gently over the rise of her cheek. He doesn't need to say that he doesn't want to lose her. When he speaks next, it's not with the intention of giving a gift, though it comes across that way, anyway: the greatest gift a necromancer could give. Rather, he means it to be grateful, that someone in this worldβ that she would hold his life in her hands, would tend that fragile flame. ]
I give my death to you.