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[volkarin]

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[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