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PARISA

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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.

[ 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.

( there's something about the room that's different — none of the furniture or the knickknacks, which are all as orderly as ever, but a palpable presence somewhere in the space between them. a notable weight, darkness back in the alcoves of emmrich's mind. worrisome, parisa thinks, but not an impossible feat. people are never stationary, are always changing and moving and processing, little puzzles not generally meant to be solved. she could pry him out of the dark with their open honesty policy, she could seduce it out of him one feather at a time, pushing away to find the bone and sinew beneath. parisa isn't convinced it would be hard — she's wormed her way so deeply into the apple heart of him, she's willing to bet a look could crash and burn him.

of course, that's the precise reason why she does nothing of the sort. open honesty policy only qualifies if it's open and honest when you least want it to be. she considers. another woman? tossed aside — emmrich is not as boring as that. worries about the future? could be, if parisa doesn't have all the facts. the only way she gets all the facts is by cracking open the eggshell of emmrich's mind. so — a thought loop. the answer remains: the only way to know what's bothering him is to listen when he speaks.

regally, she takes the offered seat, folding one leg over the other. her arms cross over her chest, not grumpy but not wanting to get distracted by his affections. this is serious, she can tell — the anxiety in her heart tells her as much. )

Speak it, then.

( you're scaring me she thinks, expression impassive. )

[ As soon as her expression stills, the easy smile he loves so much shuttering away, he feels a fist clench in his chest, one he tries to combat with a hapless smile as he casts about the room, resisting the urge to simply sit on the floor beside her chair, to rest his head on her knee. (It doesn't even take a look, in the end. She could break him open with less.) She's set the right tone for the conversation — it wouldn't behoove him to pretend that it's any less serious than it is. ]

There's a part for me to play in setting things right, [ he begins, as he draws another chair near, though he's slow to actually take a seat. ] The discovery of a ritual is— momentous. If reversal of the effects of the separation of one's soul from one's body is truly possible, if some of that pain can be alleviated—

[ He stops — starts again, his gaze falling briefly to his lap, his fingers as he keeps them still, tries not to knot them together. ]

To test the process would demand the giving of blood from someone who has already suffered. And I can't ask for further sacrifice from anyone else — not even from you, my beloved — in good conscience.

[ Then, only then, does he reach for her hand. ]

So, I mean to die.

( 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.

[ It's telling that a man like Emmrich — ever studious, ever analytical, ready for every possibility — 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 — almost a flinch — 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 world— that she would hold his life in her hands, would tend that fragile flame. ]

I give my death to you.

( generally speaking parisa isn't much of a crier, because she's intimately aware of how the median populace responds to a woman prone to emotive outbursts. it's easy to mistake her as unfeeling, is all — enough that she sometimes convinces herself of the same. silly. it's more telling that she shuts her eyes and lets emmrich's words seep into her like a warm bath, like massage oil and lotion, like a sharpened knife. she leans into his palm, forehead rolling back and forth against his kneecap. were they anyone else, i give my life to you would be far more suitable wedding vows.

lifting up after a second, she stands, kicking off her shoes with the same girlish messiness she applies to most things. grief isn't the only leading cause to the tornado result in emmrich's room exactly a minute after parisa's arrival — she just is this way. more needy than she'd ordinarily be comfortable with, she climbs into his lap, resting her head on his shoulder, the soles of her feet braced on his thigh. familiarity — clinging to tiny moments. she fusses with his collar in an uncharacteristically anxious way. )

I've. ( she cuts herself off abruptly, rolling her eyes at herself. out with it. ) I've fallen quite in love with you.

( spoken like a true matter of course — of course, i'll have to say this now, because if something happens to you, i'll regret not having said it before. a chore, like doing the laundry. do not observe the pink twinge to her cheeks, one half exhilarated lovey excitement, one half sick at thinking of how best to kill him. in his sleep? outside? poison is peaceful but razors are quick. she has to imagine the length of rope was a joke, because if it wasn't — stupid, stupid, stupid. )

I just said that to make it clear, if you decide to leave and not return to me, I'll Manfred you and use you as a hat rack. I'm sure to figure it out. ( she finally looks up at him, lifting a shoulder carelessly. fussing some of the short hairs beside his ear. ) It will be a very undignified existence for your extraordinarily oversized skeleton. I vow to make you miserable for always, for these feelings you've given me, azizam.

( lukewarm attempts at humor at best, parisa does succumb to the instinct inside her to cuddle up to him, hands palming through his hair and tilting him one way, so she can kiss him, hard.

she doesn't want to ask, which is why she has to — pursed against his mouth, breath warm and suffocating, ) Tonight?

Edited 2025-04-01 01:35 (UTC)

[ He knows. Of course he knows, when she looks at him the way she does, with stars hung in her eyes; when her girlishness spools out like a ribbon, cherry-bright and charming, colors he's never used to paint in his own life; when she holds onto him like this at the prospect of his death. And yet, to hear the words spoken aloud sends an arrow singing into his heart, blossoming into wave after wave of giddy warmth as it finds its mark. It hadn't escaped his notice that his I love yous have been met with words molded into different shapes, but it hadn't mattered, not really.

And yet. And yet, and yet, and yet.

His arms encircle her, holding her close, his gaze cataloging her as she is in this moment, not because he fears he'll never see her again but because she only grows more beautiful with each breath. My beacon, he thinks. The light that will pull him back to shore and safety. ]

You say that as though to devote my afterlife to the care of your hats would be anything but a privilege, [ he says, though he falls a little short of matching her tone, humor undercut by their context, by the very distinct and earnest thought that to serve as her skeletal footman wouldn't be the worst fate. So he gives it up before speaking next, his voice a hush between them. ] I'll come back, my love.

[ And then, silence, as their lips meet. His hand curls around one of her knees, more than broad enough to cover the whole of it; the other drifts gently down the length of her arm. ]

Tonight. [ He'd dallied too long, last month. He won't make the same mistake again. ] When I return ... [ No, not quite. He starts over. ] Depending on the manner in which I return, Dorian and Solas will be able to assist, if needed.

[ When he looks back on this, he'll think of it as a selfish death. It doesn't matter that he does it for what he perceives to be the greater good — it matters that he asks it of her. Because, this, whispered into that same, tiny sliver of space— ]

Would you stay with me?

[ —is selfish, too. ]

( maybe it goes without saying that parisa likes a bit of selfishness, particularly when it comes from emmrich, quietly requested. particularly when it isn't selfish at all, when he doesn't need to ask, because it's already true. she leans back on his shoulder, staring at him, a huff that otherwise would be a laugh whistling out of her chest. )

Where else would I be? ( if there's a space beside emmrich, she'll fill it. like water in a glass, no gaps. ) Foolish necromancer.

( silence settles over them like the setting sun, drawing light from the room as it slips to full night. parisa occupies her time memorizing emmrich, watching him watch her, running her fingers up and down the length of his chest. she always imagined these sorts of dangerous experiments were for ambitious men — she thinks of nico, knowledge-hungry and starved for old, rich texts full of the secrets of immortality, of staying awake, or keeping predators out, and is fairly sure he'd kill himself for an answer if it was promised to him. in the end, libby made that choice for him — dead now, parisa imagines he knows little of anything. emmrich, on the other hand? profoundly lacking in ambition. maybe it's harsh to say — but his own lychdom is more of an academic pursuit, the graduation cap on his head, than any hunger for power as it would be for parisa. even this death isn't in search of the strange, various ailments of leftover decay — he's dying, it seems, in apology. in an effort to aid people.

she's dating jesus christ, dying on a cross for the sins of everyone on board this mean, cruel ship.

eventually, emmrich has to prompt her. she's sat in his lap for an hour probably, just cataloguing him and thinking, memorizing how high his chest lifts when he breathes, how it changes the closer she cuddles into him. parisa, he says, and she springs up, giving him a first by tidying the room she destroyed, pushing drawers back in their places, setting her shoes in a tidy line beside his. at the dresser, she asks herself the question what should emmrich die in? before deciding on a cashmere pajama set she likes but doesn't love, in dark burgundy. there are clothes here for her, but parisa stays in her dress, bullying him into bed and laying herself beside him, touching from head to toe. )

Don't worry, ( she promises, kissing him. ) you'll wake up dead.

( emmrich is a creature of habit even in his dreams. parisa is there, observing them, letting him take her on a green garden stroll through the grand necropolis, a splatter of red against the otherwise sickly lighting the mourn watch seems to prefer. she doesn't control the dream, and so it stutters and skips and blends nonsensically the way dreams do — when emmrich's unconscious mind dreams of something to show her they're suddenly there, in the middle of a conversation, following the logic that all dreams do: they're real, until you realize they aren't.

most of her is there in the dream, soaking in what she can of emmrich's remaining time. but her split mind is still awake beside him, and the technical aspects of her move as she will, getting up from bed and moving effortlessly on top of him, hands around his neck. she's aware of herself doing it, but she's not really present — she's with emmrich, kissing him in the memorial gardens, teasing him about his room, testing his knowledge of bone bits she selects at random. femur, scaphoid, clavicle. distracting. monitoring his pain. the body underneath hers doesn't thrash as she cuts off air supply, because it doesn't know it's suffocating. there's just the dream, slowly growing dimmer. dream emmrich's confused face, and with the split second of his remaining life comes understanding, which fills parisa with panic. it's time? he doesn't have the time to wake up luckily, because he's already dead. parisa's consciousness returns to her, coming to with her hands around emmrich's purple neck, letting him go with a watery gasp.

she sprawls backwards, sat at the foot of his bed, watching him. since no one is around to observe it, she cries. she isn't like embry or charles, hungry to clutch at dead bodies in denial — she knows emmrich is dead, because she did it, because his mind isn't there with hers, blending together the space between them. when she reaches out to touch his cheek, he's just a corpse, already going cold without regulation. his chest doesn't lift. he doesn't lean into the kiss she presses on his mouth. he's just dead. right.

inexplicably, she thinks about naseer, her fated husband. dead, too. she never got to say to him — never really got to tell him how badly she despised him, how unfair he was to her, how cruel he never understood that he was the way men never understand the depths of their own societal cruelties. she thought if i told him, it would be easier. if he knew, then she wouldn't have to mourn him. she wouldn't have to feel sorry, or bad, or ever think about him again, actually. he could just be dead, and she could live her life free of regrets, and that could be the end of things.

well — it was a mistake. honesty doesn't make anything feel better. she told emmrich i've fallen in love with you, and he's still dead, still in bed where she left, in pajamas she dressed him in, gone. parisa sits in the armchair he occupied earlier, watching him until sunrise. eventually the maids show up and take his body away, making no comments about the purple bruising around his throat. parisa searches through his dresser for what to bury him in. the green, maybe? the purple? he has a bottle of the red wine she likes at the bottom drawer of his desk, and she drinks it, warm, from the neck of the bottle. the room feels dead, too. )

Edited 2025-04-02 13:58 (UTC)

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