[ The more time they spend together, the more evident it becomes that, simply put, he enjoys it. Any opportunity to make a romantic gesture, any chance to do something for her, unnecessary or not. Where he's concerned, it's part and parcel of being in love. What time he has, he wants to spend on her.
The second letter's method of delivery makes him laugh, the lipstick remaining smudged over his lips until a sheepish maid points it out to him later in the day, making him sheepish in turn. Later in the night, as Parisa dozes in bed, Emmrich sits at his desk, bathrobe draped over his shoulders as he writes. He leaves the finished letter on the nightstand, kissing her forehead before falling asleep, himself. ]
Professor Kamali,
You called me legible, once β I think I only now begin to understand how much that is the case. I was once asked what I think I'd have become, had I not joined the Mourn Watch, and the answer I settled upon was: a botanist. And here you are, a step ahead of me, in the garden of my own mind.
As for the matter of which flower you are, the bloom that comes to mind is one I believe is, regrettably, not shared with this plane. In Nevarra, we've a flower known as Shroud's Kiss. Delicate white petals that seem to glow in the moonlight, anthers of a rich purple. Legend has it that it grows on lovers' graves, and that to breathe in its scent will bring one closer to the Fade, what one might colloquially describe as the spirit realm. I would describe you in much the same way: the locus of my affection, your magic so deftly opening possibilities to mine that I'd once thought impossible. Singular, subject to rumor β the truth being what one makes of it, reserved for those who would take the time to attend to it. A rose could hardly compare.
Fortunately, I've always been a diligent student. You're quite correct, of course β I failed to consider the language's orientation, but that's a mistake that is easily corrected. Besides, I can allow myself only so much latitude when facing the idea of disappointment from one who would call me beloved.
Your lucky pupil, Emmrich
[ And below, this time, a sketch of the flower mentioned above. ]
no subject
The second letter's method of delivery makes him laugh, the lipstick remaining smudged over his lips until a sheepish maid points it out to him later in the day, making him sheepish in turn. Later in the night, as Parisa dozes in bed, Emmrich sits at his desk, bathrobe draped over his shoulders as he writes. He leaves the finished letter on the nightstand, kissing her forehead before falling asleep, himself. ][ And below, this time, a sketch of the flower mentioned above. ]