[ He reads with his chin resting on his hand, his back a little hunched as his eyes flicker back and forth over the paper. The fact is that he's seen glimmers of these sentiments before β in the way she says I love you in every way but that, in the self-deprecation that seems to spring from a deeper, more bitter well. Were he a younger man, perhaps he'd push harder, more insistently, against the idea that nothing could change the way he feels, but he isn't that man anymore, has lived through enough relationships he'd thought would last to know that he can promise her, without a doubt, that change will never extend its long fingers in their direction. All they can do is live it and see what happens.
But the glow of certainty persists in his chest, regardless, each glance she casts his way like a breath over burning coals. He wants to believe β does believe, just as he believes in Rook and the rest of the party, just as he believes in Manfred, in goodness as a whole. The fatal flaw of a romantic, perhaps, but he knows she's seen it, in his head. In his heart.
So he reads over her letter once more (the notion of godhood ringing in his ears) before returning to bed, tucking her against his side (if she'll let him) as he settles a book on his lap, and on top of that, a sheet of paper. He writes in full view, if she so chooses to watch, though it's just as easy to turn her head away or leave, entirely. ]
Parisa,
You're right, of course, that none of us can truly tell the future. But at the very least, I might say that to become a lich goes well beyond what one might consider the territory of spoilt milk, having surrendered the very idea of flesh at all, and yet you hardly blanched at the idea. It'd make me quite the hypocrite to allow such a thing sole authorship over my affection. In fact, I daresay we'd make quite the pair of skeletons, if you so chose to tread the same path. We could spend the centuries comparing which varieties of bleach to use on our bones.
But, as for the rest:
I mean it, most ardently. I would follow you to the edges of the known universe, if you wished it β and, it would now seem, beyond those limits, too, provided a little time to put a bow upon the business that presently awaits me in my own world.
I suppose my question to you is: do you truly wish to become a god? Is that the choice you'd make for yourself, were I not a part of the equation?
no subject
But the glow of certainty persists in his chest, regardless, each glance she casts his way like a breath over burning coals. He wants to believe β does believe, just as he believes in Rook and the rest of the party, just as he believes in Manfred, in goodness as a whole. The fatal flaw of a romantic, perhaps, but he knows she's seen it, in his head. In his heart.
So he reads over her letter once more (the notion of godhood ringing in his ears) before returning to bed, tucking her against his side (if she'll let him) as he settles a book on his lap, and on top of that, a sheet of paper. He writes in full view, if she so chooses to watch, though it's just as easy to turn her head away or leave, entirely. ]