[ 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β a plush rabbit (practically her height, he observes) with a pink ribbon about its neck β 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 β 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 β 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 β it turns his gaze icy and his brow sharp. Though her touch doesn't stall his thoughts of vengeance β molten in his chest for how new they are β 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 β 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 β gentle, as he always is when they're alone together β 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.
interlude, adagio.
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 β 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 β 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 β a plush rabbit (practically her height, he observes) with a pink ribbon about its neck β 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 β 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 β 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 β it turns his gaze icy and his brow sharp. Though her touch doesn't stall his thoughts of vengeance β molten in his chest for how new they are β 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 β 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 β gentle, as he always is when they're alone together β 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. ]