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[volkarin]

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[multiverse]

( the thought of emmrich sitting at his desk, brow knotted, watching her while he writes for her, is such an intoxicating image that parisa tucks her knees up to her chest and reads it a dozen times over, wondering where he paused, what he thought. she's admittedly precious about it — won't read a word until he leaves to bathe in the morning, sitting where he sat and mulling over every line. she wipes the smile off her mouth once he exits, sucking her cheek in, before pulling emmrich back to bed, rendering his bath null and void.

her returning letter comes a few days later, though it might take longer to find, folded in between the pages of a book emmrich's been looking through lately. )

Beloved,

You earn points for naming a flower I've never heard of. Really, it's clever — I have no point of reference on whether to be flattered or not, but the mysticism has gotten to me, Monsieur Botanist. They look lovely, going off your sketch. And, on that note, who knew you were such an artist? It makes one wonder if there's anything you can't do. If you'd provide some examples, I'd like to hear them.

Truth be told, I've never give much thought to what I'd do if I wasn't a telepath. People seem to be my natural calling. Maybe I'd be a mortician, and see you in whatever avenue fate chose for you — necromancing or botany. Of course, if handsome men like you make a habit of visiting funeral homes, I imagine more people would find their way down there sooner rather than later, inside or out of the box.

Yours,
Parisa

P.S. I think bluebells for you.

( additionally, there's a writing sheet for practicing letters — parisa wrote out the persian alphabet, leaving empty space for emmrich to test himself. )

[volkarin]

[ It's the rare distraction he allows to actually hold his attention, leaving the book — an account on the history and development of funerary rites in this world (or one close to it, at the very least) — aside as he reads over her letter. Already, he's begun to treasure each exchange, keeping every letter tucked safely into a box, itself hidden away in one of the compartments of his desk.

He doesn't write the response in full view, this time, though he does work on his practice sheets while she's around, occasionally asking after the stroke order, or the ways the letters change when in front of or between others. Beautifully complex, he hums, once, seemingly — no, obviously — pleased at having something to put his mind to, at being taught by her.

A day or two later, placed carefully in the pocket of her bathrobe: ]

Ma moitié,

As much as poetry may suit me, most of the bardic persuasions are quite far out of my grasp; put a musical instrument in my hands, and I wouldn't know where to start, though that problem can at least be solved through the application of time and effort. Then there's the matter of humor, which I've been told is an art that is lost upon me. I confess, I find puns tolerable only in severe moderation.

Then again, I would say that your talent for poetry puts mine to shame. That we might find each other in some other life is quite the romantic picture, but somehow also one that doesn't strike me as being particularly far-fetched. I typically consider myself quite responsible when it comes to my work, and yet I find myself wondering if, in this hypothetical, I wouldn't occupy too much of my time attempting to craft the perfect arrangement for your parlor in the hopes of attracting your attention. Only you, I think, could so sway my attention.

I wonder, occasionally, if whatever doorways through which this place has pulled us together would allow for some travel. Would you ever consider visiting Thedas with me? The possibility seems distinctly faint, if present at all, and yet I find myself compelled to ask.

Eternally yours,
Emmrich

P.S. You may have to take my word for it, but I do think bluebells and Shroud's Kiss would make quite the lovely bouquet.

[ Two of the writing sheets sit inside the folds of the letters: one clear, columns filled with Emmrich's careful script; and the other, while still filled with repeated letters, full of notes in the margins — reminders of the contents of their earlier conversations as to the language, numbers indicating stroke order, so on and so forth. ]

[multiverse]

( the next letter comes with another hand delivery — parisa perched on his lap, waving the perfumed parchment under his nose. except every time emmrich makes moves to grab it, parisa pitches it out of his reach, stretching until he offers something else in return, payment for the letter boy. maybe a little extra, enough that when he does eventually find the letter, it's tangled up in the sheets, wrinkled from misuse. )

نیمه دیگر من

Picking up another language, are we? You're certainly ambitious. French is considered the language of lovers, actually. It does seem up your alley.

Musical prowess is overrated, anyway. Songs don't butter your bread. And I like your sense of humor, for the record. It would seem I find even the worst things about you exceedingly tolerable, if not wonderful. Don't you think so?

Speaking of jokes. It's funny, I think the only thing waiting for me at home is a suitably tragic and unavoidable death. Sacrifice, as the Society would call it. I don't know if I could say that to your face, as I know talk of my death upsets you. The point is, there's nothing much awaiting me in Paris, or all the rest of the world. I've spent my life trying to outrun it. I'm hunted. Eventually I'll get old and lose the fight.

You say "visit" like you aren't the destination, Emmrich. How many different ways can I spell it out? It's you.

Universally and multiversally yours,
Parisa

P.S. Draw me one, please. For my collection.

[volkarin]

[ 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). ]

[multiverse]

( it becomes obvious what parisa is doing just a touch too late to nip it in the bud, as she ordinarily would — making plans for the future. a criminally unlike her thing to do, for several reasons, not the least of which is because her shelf life as a beautiful, fuckable woman is closing in around her. a few more years and her assets are going to wrinkle and droop and gray, and if one follows the direction of these letters, where does that leave her? in another world, at the whim of a man's interest in her. of course, that man is emmrich. of course, it's difficult to imagine his love for her is fleeting, passing by with the wind. but even then, these lessons have been hard learned through a lifetime of education, and very basis of parisa's philosophy on life counters these letters in the fabric of the words, the skeletal marrow of meaning. parisa always knows the exit route of any room she's in, and she always has a backup. there's nothing she can't replace if she has to.

except, there is emmrich. a different kind of equation.

she mulls over responding, different tactics to the same outcome. whether parisa believes in permanent, honest love is the whole crux of the issue — because she doesn't, not really. every one of her family members loved her to a point. every relationship she's ever had has been functionally the same, except for this one. unconditional love is a myth perpetrated by children's animated feature films in the name of population control, turning little girls into little lesbians when no man matches up to prince charming. parisa is, first and foremost, a realist. and while emmrich might be generous with his affection, might even mean everything he says, parisa is too well trained to believe in the permanence of anything.

even if, maybe, she wants to. believe. maybe. )

Emmrich

What if you tire of me? Don't say it's impossible — I assure you, it is very possible. I'm remarkably tiresome. I can list references if you don't believe me, and you would probably make that list, by the way. I found a gray hair the other day. Several of them, even. I'm going to age like spoiled milk. What if I follow you home and eventually I lose whatever made me attractive to you? I'm not getting any younger, and a woman like me has her golden years, which are already coming to a close. What if I'm in a new world and something happens to you, and I'm alone?

I am tired of running, for the record. I think I was born tired. I don't think I've ever wanted anything in life as much as a place to belong, but I don't think I can belong to a place that isn't in my control, which I understand sounds completely insane. I am an insane person, probably. That's what life has done to me.

If you really mean it, and want to live this relationship beyond our captivity here, then I want to. Logistically, I know the equations of how to make new worlds, and the philosophies behind it. At the risk of sounding overambitious, while admitting there is plenty of room for failure, we could make one that suits us, if I find the right people and parts to help.

The question is: do you want to become gods with me? And at what cost?

Parisa

( she leaves this one unfolded on his desk, face up, watching him read it while she's tucked into his bed, nakedly pinning the covers to her chest. )

[volkarin]

[ 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 — 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 — 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 — 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?

Yours,
Emmrich

[multiverse]

( there's no part of her that even considers leaving, cheek pressed on his chest, watching his fingers flex while he writes, a front row seat to exactly what she's been curious about this entire time. as it turns out, emmrich doesn't worry over words at all — he writes from the heart, with immediacy. with intention, even. it's ridiculous she ever considered otherwise, like he isn't always whipquick with his romance in conversation. of course, part of parisa knew she was shedding some light on darker parts of herself better left in the shadowy corners of her mind. this is something akin to slicing pieces of her meat on a plate for him to poke at. then again, it's nothing she hasn't made him do, so. maybe it's past time.

she snags the pen from him when he's done, using his lap to write her reply in the margins of his words. )

The making of a new world has been attempted, before. It didn't go well, if I'm honest. I wasn't present for it, but someone I cared about was murdered. It was done in opposition to what you just poised to me: the question of why, met and matched with the question of why not? Not a good reason, as it stands. A very classic tale of academic arrogance, which I believe you can understand.

So, no, I wouldn't attempt it again if not for you. But taking you out of the equation feels counter to the point, which is us being together. So, we're bargaining now. Your counter offer is the Mourn Watch — tell me what that is like. It could be ages before I was offered lichdom, isn't that right? You would wait a long time to stroke bones with your skeletal love.

I'm yours, actually,
Parisa

( she leaves it on his lap, looking back at him expectantly, before leaning in to press a kiss on his neck. )

[volkarin]

[ Emmrich's gaze only turns to what Parisa's written when she gets out of bed. Until that point, he's only looking at her, watching the way concentration and thought manifest on her lovely features, as though he could read her intentions better this way than in seeing what she puts to paper. Letter-writing has a way of both diluting and intensifying feeling, and it's useful to remind himself of something more immediate, more instinctual — her, here, with him. There's nothing to doubt or speculate on in this moment, no hairline fault in the affection he feels for her in the here and now.

His response takes a little longer, on account of the new sketch that accompanies it: a great gate, not so unlike the Ishtar Gate, with two towering statues — skeletal figures adorned in robes — on either side of it. Underneath the drawing, in Emmrich's hand: The Grand Necropolis. A day after her last writing to him, a day before the answering sketch and letter arrive — on a tray, this time delivered to her in the bath — he tells her he's in the middle of writing, compelled, perhaps, by the knowledge they've begun treading into slightly less idle territory. ]

My love,

How strange, for us both to have been visited by the same spectre of misfortune. But how fortunate, now, that both sides of our bargain consider a future for us together, rather than apart.

The calling of the Mourn Watch, in the simplest terms, is to maintain the balance between life and death. In practice, there are any number of ways to honor that mission, from assisting in the funerary preparations and rites for those interred in the Grand Necropolis, to tending to the errant wisps and spirits that roam the halls, to devoting oneself to academia. I, as you know, fell more into that last category, both researching and teaching necromancy, as well as handling the occasional request to commune with the dead. Recent days had also plunged me into more action that I'd necessarily expected, dealing with rogue spirits outside of the bounds of the city.

(As a side note, I confess I occasionally feel the same frustration that drove Johanna to abandon our order entirely, but I do not believe change to be out of the question — merely that such things will happen at their own pace [or given a particularly persuasive argument] on account of the sheer age of the institution.)

And, yes — no two paths to lichdom are alike, and it could be some time before you were allowed to undertake the ritual, but in the meanwhile, I feel it necessary to note that there is very little extant literature on the nature of intimate relations between liches and humans. That potential avenue of exploration aside, what are a few years — or several — when we've eternity to look forward to?

Love, now and forever,
Emmrich

[multiverse]

( it is, miraculously, possibly the best carrot he could've dangled in front of her. the first response comes in the shape of a post-it note pressed against his bathroom mirror, as if an immediate reaction was necessary. )

So I could make my life's mission the thorough research of lich and human lovemaking? Hmmm ...
♥

( an avenue of undiscovered experiments, crossing the points of her obsession with death and her possibly worse obsession with emmrich. getting to fuck him and call it science. publishing a book on all her discoveries hovering on top of emmrich, scandalizing all his students with tale of their professor's sexual prowess, bleached bones on tanned skin. the thought makes her toes twist.

later, a more thorough response comes, tucked between the folded shirts in his dresser. with the letter comes a framed picture of the dance of death by michael wolgemut. )

To my one day lich,

I don't think you're mistaken for being frustrated. Truth be told, I have absolutely no loyal ties to the Alexandrian Society, it just happens to be that their enemies try very hard to kill me, which tends to choose your side for you. It's not the pursuit of power that made me drop out of the world creation race, by the way — in that way, I might've agreed with Johanna's actions. It's just the cost, that has to give pause. Most things aren't worth the effort they take. You and me, however, are not one of those cases.

Let's say the idea of fucking you for science has compelled me to agree with you, follow you home, join the Mourn Watch and follow my natural calling towards academic pursuits. Are there any scorned lovers waiting for you at home that I should know about? Or expectant students, hungry for their professors? Or children from previous relationships? What I mean to ask — this life that you're returning to, that you'd bring me into. Are you sure there's a spot for me? Because once it's done, it's done. You'll have to make a Parisa-shaped space in your world, and let me occupy it. I don't need to remind you that I'm not a coat you can hang up at the door to pick up when you like. I'm high-maintenance. Do you like the maintenance? Not just now — forever.

A tentatively interested party in also becoming a lich one day,
Parisa

[volkarin]

[ Truth told, though he mentions it practically in passing, the idea delights him in equal measure. To so truly entwine love and death, to devote himself to her. Already, he wonders of the mechanics — how one might manipulate a glamor, how the pulse of necromantic magic would factor into physical closeness. How it'd work once they've both undertaken the ritual, how much he treasures the idea of their life together, forever. Once, he might have been mortified at the thought of sharing any answers to the questions posed, but, somehow, it's just as much something to look forward to as any of the rest of it.

He only takes as long as is required to read the writing on the post-it before removing it from the mirror, cautious of the bathroom's humidity in his efforts to preserve their correspondence. The returning letter awaits with her clothing, a few mornings after, clipped onto the hanger on which he's hung her dress from the previous night. ]

To the one whose bones so complement mine (or is it the other way around),

I daresay a Parisa-shaped space is waiting for you; I simply lacked the knowledge, before, to know what belonged there.

The only other you ought to know about is Manfred. Not a former love, not a student, not a child (though he certainly behaves like on), but a wisp. Once I realized how persistent and curious he was — unlike any other wisp I'd encountered before — I placed him into a skeleton. He is both my ward and assistant, capable of understanding speech but not yet of speaking, himself. Having given him life — in a manner of speaking — he's my responsibility. I think you'd like him, and I know that he'd like you.

It isn't solely that I like that maintenance — of you, of us — but that I desire it. I would happily fill my days with you, if you'd allow it. And it seems a small price to pay, if one could even call it that, for the sacrifice you'd be making in forsaking your world for mine.

میبوسمت
Emmrich

P.S. Who are these charming fellows? It's relatively rare, I think, to see the dead in such revels.

[multiverse]

( it really isn't surprising that emmrich takes to persian like a fish to water — she can tell he's a man who needs a project, and after their risky meddling with the boundaries of death in this place, he's a little trepidatious to push in that direction. arabic script, parisa imagines, would be the hardest thing about learning the new language — but emmrich is meticulous and focused and won't settle for a job half completed, so his handwriting goes from hesitant to confident, beautiful and flowery. they work on his pronunciation and vocabulary in the evenings, parisa donning her farsi accent with a little self-consciousness, but eventually falling into rhythm with him, exchanging words back and forth until he gets the sounds right. estekhan, bone. khon, blood. shortam khise, mikham kireto mazekonam, ehsas khoobi behem midi vaghti kardi dakhel, my panties are soaked, i want to suck your dick, you feel so good inside me. all the important stuff.

the next letter is left out on his bedside table after, possibly for the first time ever, parisa woke up before him. in fact there are two letters — the same letter, but one written in english, and one written in french, except for the dedicated line, which reads my starry sky on the french copy. )

Mon ciel étoilé,

I believe I've seen your skeleton friend in your dreams, actually. He's very lively. Am I understanding that you found some spirit and put him in a completely different skeleton from the one he controlled while alive? I find that fascinating. The rules seem very flexible, which I suppose is why your Mourn Watch is so rigid in response.

Anyway, there's no drug I find half as indulgent as your attention. It's not much of a sacrifice, to leave my home. In fact, it's entirely selfish — I'm considering it solely for the benefit of myself, rest assured.

As for the art, I suppose you could call it a Middle Aged Euro-centric piece of folklore called the Danse Macabre, this belief that Death dances you to the afterlife. It reminded me of you, since you're so cheerful. This particular art is taken from what was at the time a world history encyclopedia known as Liber Chronicarum (Latin, trust me you don't need to learn that one), and with most things of that time, is heavily focused and influenced by Christianity. That said, it's still a good thing to leaf through, for the pictures if nothing else. What would ordinarily be a rare find in my world, I found relatively easy in the Library. It was from the earliest stages of printing, predating the printing press, even — an incunabulum, we'd call it. Of course, the one here is first addition. Careful hands, my beloved, I know you have them.

There are a lot of other pieces of art associated with Danse Macabre. A few middling poems here or there, but there's a composition that is actually quite good. I'll play it for you tonight.

Save a dance for me?
Parisa

( she does manage to scrounge up a record player, and a rough press of camille saint-saëns'danse macabre, which she does use as an excuse to pull emmrich into a waltz, despite the morbid content. it's what they're good at, after all. )

[volkarin]

[ He's transparent in that respect — he's a man who appreciates a point of focus, whether it's her, or a new language (or two), or personal grooming, or some as-yet-undiscovered branch of necromancy, and he's content, for now, with their visits to the Sibling (who is at least a little less nervous around them that she was during their first encounter) as far as unraveling any further secrets about this place. And, if he's being honest with himself, he appreciates the excuse to center his efforts on her. There's nothing like embarrassment or doubt in his voice when he whispers the phrases she teaches him back to her, unbothered by the discrepancy in anatomy.

When he wakes to the two letters, he reads the one written in French, first — better practice — treating both just as carefully as the book that accompanies them, his fingers hovering over but never touching the script except to turn the pages. There's a sketch of Manfred, done in the style of the illustrations in the book, waiting for her along with his letter, placed on her dresser sometime during the middle of the day. ]

L’amour de ma vie,

That's quite right — I suppose the only difference is that he was never alive. Such is what separates spirits and souls, at least as we define them in my world; a soul is the core of a living being, whereas a spirit originates from the Fade, an energy or idea given form rather from what was once immaterial. It is what makes him remarkable to me; I've seen many spirits in my lifetime, but never once one with such a strong will to truly live.

Thank you, my dear, for the book - and for the dance. I'd say I find it surprising that such a legend would still allow for so much fear of death, and yet — what little I've learned of the nature of Christianity, at the risk of sounding simplistic, makes the reasoning somewhat more clear to me.

All that said, tt seems, then, that we've come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. And I must confess I feel quite spoiled, myself — you're quite the generous teacher. As strict as you told me you'd be, I find myself looking forward to our lessons.

De tout mon cœur,
Emmrich

[multiverse]

( she's starting quite the collection of little trinkets from emmrich — the kind of box every girl keeps from a partner they're especially infatuated by. ticket stubs and old receipts, things that look like trash but that up the tangible form of memories, keepsakes. parisa is a little surprised by herself, when she realizes what she's doing. despite all outward appearances she isn't materialistic by nature — things, she finds, weigh you down when you're looking for a quick getaway. of course, she isn't looking for that opportunity to slink out in the night. her eyes are nowhere near the door. and when she looks at all the sketches emmrich has drawn her, she doesn't think about how she'd fit them all in her bag if she had to leave. she pins them to her vanity, tucked between the mirror and the wood paneling, where she can sigh and roll her eyes at them in between doing her makeup in the morning. like an idiot, or at least one who's in love. )

هنرمند من

I think this is the longest time I've dated an artist without receiving a portrait of myself. Do I not inspire? Or is your talent in plants and bones alone?

He's very cute, our Manfred, at least as far as skeletons go. Do you have any thoughts on what idea he manifests from? There must be theories — in fact, the theoretical could likely fill up books where I come from. You have to know the concept of an idea taking physical form is fascinating to me. We have this belief in the known world of magic and science, "Nothing comes from nothing" or conversely, "Everything comes from something." Energy isn't just created, it's borrowed, even recycled. Manfred would seem a counterpoint to that argument, born from a notion, whatever it is. Tenacity, perhaps?

It is a brain teaser, truly. Even adding something as jovial as a dance to the concept of dying, they didn't do it to soothe themselves when the Reaper comes knocking. More, it added to the morbidity of death, as if pagans couldn't just die, but needed to have the foundations of their very decency rocked to the core by Christian devils. Christianity generally finds a way to make you feel guilty for anything you might indulge in, so it's safely said, Christianity was not a faith I ever practiced growing up. I prefer things far more indecent than dancing, as you well know.

I think you just like sitting on the opposite side of the chalkboard for a change. Your Persian and French are coming along very nicely, although I'm not shocked to find you're a quick learner. Tomorrow, we'll speak only in Persian. It'll be good for vocabulary.

الهام بخش شما
Parisa

P.S. I really don't speak Persian to anyone but you. You should feel special.

[volkarin]

[ Writing and reading in Persian come more easily to him than speaking — the tangibility of the characters more easily parsed in his mind — even though it isn't as though he falters at all when he speaks with her, awkward sentences smoothing out under her hand. (It hasn't even been a month, after all; even a man of his dedication can only do so much.) So, as best he can, he asks her to sit for a portrait, tells her that she'll only be allowed to see the finished product upon the delivery of his next letter.

It's difficult and easy at the same time — the exercise of drawing forth and giving form to a thought always is. He knows how he sees her in his mind's eye — so clever that he think she wouldn't have to peer into his head to know every last part of him, so warm as to say our Manfred without having ever met him, so lovely, so brave — but how to put that onto paper?

Despite the agonizing nature of the process, the sketch that accompanies his next letter is surprisingly clean, free of any marks that would indicate lines being drawn and erased and drawn again, a work as confident as his love for her. ]

My darling muse,

Quite the contrary, as I expect you've now gathered — plants and bones may command my attention, but not my devotion. Any artist, I think, would balk at the idea of having to capture perfection; I can only hope my attempt, such as it is, doesn't displease you.

As for Manfred, his origin is curiosity. It persists, even now — I cannot even begin to guess at what will fascinate him next, though he's quite fond of anything that shines or glimmers. But he's as likely to find happiness with a gilded brooch as with a stick or a piece of string. I've had to learn to let go of any inclination to predict his behavior and simply accept that I've as much to learn from him as he does from me.

And I suppose you're right — I've had little occasion to play the student, in recent years. To teach oneself or to research alongside another, as we have, are entirely different endeavors. Well, that, and I quite enjoy getting to see another side of you. After all, a jewel cannot be fully appreciated by a single facet alone.

As for that last note, allow me to move it from a postscript to the main body of my letter: I do. Endlessly, I do.

The humble recipient of your patronage,
Emmrich