[ He laughs — the way he always does when she flirts with him, as though he's surprised by her attention, that she'd choose to bestow it upon him. It's a little less so, these days; it'd be a disservice to keep acting as though he doesn't understand why she bothers with him or that her affection is genuine. So its timbre is more pleased than anything else, grateful. And there's nothing like doubt on his features when he kisses her, the letter still held out of his grasp, or when he simply sweeps her up and carries her to bed.
It's not quite tit for tat, after. As they settle into the house's theater — he picks A Matter of Life and Death, largely for its title, though he's shed a tear by the time the film ends — he sets a tray nearby, arranged with a plate of cut fruits, a box of chocolates, and his letter propped up against a bottle of wine. ]
جیگر طلا , mon choupinou, my sweet,
I could hardly leave well enough alone once you'd mentioned it. What sort of lover would I be, if I did? And I did warn you — as a pupil, I strive for comprehensive comprehension.
I've wondered at that, in truth, since the first moment we met. What I'd consider damning about myself, you have a way of finding redeeming; and I, the same for you. Perhaps that might be thought of as one of the layers to that first phrase you taught me: دورت بگردم. We are complementary, lucky to be whole.
And so it goes: I, for you; you, for me. Let me, for once, borrow your boldness—
Stop running. Leave those would hunt you, who would see you as anything less than what you are. Be with me. Here, in Thedas, anywhere the world takes us.
There is no world, for me, that exists without the memory of you in it.
Love, Emmrich
[ As promised, there's one more sheet folded into the envelope. Lacking a reference, there's a touch of awkwardness to the sketch, but nevertheless: he's arranged blossoms of bluebells and Shroud's Kiss onto the paper, filled out with sprigs of sweet alyssum (sweetness of soul) and ragweed (reciprocated love). ]
no subject
It's not quite tit for tat, after. As they settle into the house's theater — he picks A Matter of Life and Death, largely for its title, though he's shed a tear by the time the film ends — he sets a tray nearby, arranged with a plate of cut fruits, a box of chocolates, and his letter propped up against a bottle of wine. ][ As promised, there's one more sheet folded into the envelope. Lacking a reference, there's a touch of awkwardness to the sketch, but nevertheless: he's arranged blossoms of bluebells and Shroud's Kiss onto the paper, filled out with sprigs of sweet alyssum (sweetness of soul) and ragweed (reciprocated love). ]