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[ A knock at Emmrich’s door alerts him to the presence of one Jonty Balfour, who perks once he answers, seemingly excitable. ]

Emmrich, ole chap! Now, a little birdie did tell me you were quite interested in the graves on our lot. Now, I’d be delighted to share what I know of the old family history, but I found this, and thought it might be a bit of some help to you.

[ He hands him a wrapped package, containing a very boring ledger of everyone who’s buried in the Saltburnt cemetery, names and dates only. Surprise — it’s actually a plot coin! Enjoy! ]

( as expected, parisa is a lot better at receiving gift than sending them. so — the "present" is a middling at best, and a few days after christmas anyway, and not thorough or thoughtful or anything but completely indulgent. in fact, it's just a card. on his pillow, no less, behind a door that might've been locked but was fondly compelled in a different direction. on it is written: )

I like gifts.

Parisa.

( and signed off with a squirt of parisa's perfume and a kiss — namely with the lipstick emmrich bought her. maybe she perfumed his pillow too, for good measure. see you in your dreams, professor. )

Body horror, blood in the tag and in the link ... yay!

[ A little while after Matt sprouted wings and fled to Armand, and Armand secreted him up to these hidden honeycombs of attic room, he realized, This probably counts as more symptoms. ]

Hey Professor. Bit of an update.

[ The photo attached shows Matt's forearm, his sweater rolled up to reveal a small, white wing protruding as if it's about to try lifting his arm into flight. Matt's managed to clean up most of the blood, but the skin around the wing is visibly red and irritated. ]

[ the servants bring a box to emmrich's door late on christmas eve. inside is a set of handkerchiefs, hand-stitched and embellished with his initials. alongside them is a short note signed with the direwolf seal of House Stark: ]

Emmrich,

Please find enclosed a small gift, which I hope may be of use to you.

You have been very kind to me, and I shall not forget it. It seems that nothing is ever easy in this house, but I hope that you shall find some peace here this winter.

Your friend,

Sansa Stark, Queen of the North.

[ Well, that's certainly unusual. ]

How quickly has this growth progressed?

[ Then, almost immediately afterward (though the answer seems evident): ]

Are you in any pain?

I've had worse, for sure.

[ You know, like when he was being murdered, or several hours ago when he sprouted all these feathers. It's such a dodge, and Matt's sure it comes across that way, but he just--really wants to be seen as a field researcher offering valuable insights on phenomena, not a callow youth who's making problems again. Anyway, how to describe the pain he feels? It hurts like it must hurt to be the inside of a church bell, hollow without its songs of praise. He wants Armand to bring him something. Food, even though he isn't hungry. Blankets, even though he isn't cold. Something to show his ḑ̷͈̞̫̺̩̘͒̅́͂̍͊͘͠͝ẽ̵̡̤̬͇̤̱̞̝͎̩̋̀́̐̈́̓̎̚͝ͅv̶̢̡͓̲̩̣̗̘͒̐̀́̊ö̴̧̢̧̞͇͙̫͙̱͈̦͇̘̼͇́̿͐͆̉̕͜t̶͓͕̤̭̤̬̥̭̱̘̭̙̖̝̱̔̀̍͊̈́͆̔̈́̒̕͝ͅí̸̖̲̲͕̭̠̝͆̀̃͊͂̕͠ͅọ̸̢̯̹̦̇̀͑̔̇̾͒̽̂̓͋̃͠ͅn̸͕̥̺̼͎͓͉̥̤̳̟͔̹̬͔̈́͒͑̄̽̀͌̒̽̉͋̆̐̀͘͝ͅ. ]

It seems to come in fits and starts. The first spike was maybe six hours ago? That was dramatic, it hasn't been so bad since.

But I'm still finding new growths.

I see.

[ Well, not literally, hence, ]

May I come see you?

No.

Sorry.

I'll send you pictures and video if you want a better look at the phenomena, but

[ "I'm being hunted" feels like guy-who-causes-problems territory. Plus, what if Emmrich tries to confront Heinrix and something happens to ... well, to either of them? The less said, the better. ]

some friends are checking on me. I don't really want anyone else to see me like this.

[ That's— fair, despite what Emmrich would describe as professional curiosity. ]

Of course. I'd appreciate being kept abreast, but not so much that you ought to concern yourself with it rather than looking after your own wellbeing.

If there's anything I can do, please do not hesitate to reach out. And, if you'd be so kind, let me know when you're [ what's the best word for this situation ... ] safe.

I appreciate that. Really. I'll keep you posted.

[ A few minutes later, a couple more photos arrive, showing wings of varying sizes blooming from unexpected and painful-looking places. Matt's arm, his temple (carefully cropped not to show his eyes). There's a video, too: A closeup on Matt's back, where large white wings flex uneasily. No sound.

Matt considers what more he can offer. While he's thinking, his hands type out:

The Bridegroom is coming, beloved.
With red wine and yellow wine.
Engraved upon your wedding ring,
I EAT, THEREFORE I AM.

The words flow with the practiced ease of a memorized poem or prayer, no input required from his conscious mind. But when Matt sees what he's done, he deletes the message.

He doesn't reach back out to Emmrich until days later, when it's all over. ]

Update: Back to normal (successful ritual). Next time someone dies, find a rock with their name on it in the lake and fish it out.

[ At some point in the days just after New Year's, Emmrich will find a small but lovely arrangement of white datura and black hellebore, with a hand-penned, lightly perfumed note: ]

Professor,

A little something to brighten your room, after an unexpected - but deeply welcome - reunion.

Your wayward pupil,
Dorian

Edited (wrong flower link rip!!) 2025-01-13 19:32 (UTC)

[ sometime after his network post, which she read but feels incapable of responding to — she hates the little phones, a knock comes at the door and a maid stands there with a letter on a tray. it's sealed with a glob of wax, pressed flat with a fingertip, not a seal.

in a careful, very old fashioned cursive in shimmery blue ink because they only gave her gel pens, ]

Professor,

Forgive my intrusion but I felt compelled to tell you of my gift now that I know of yours. Despite not being possessed of magic myself, I can see the magic of others like threads in a tapestry surrounding them. At times I can venture a guess as to the nature of the magic, especially those I am familiar with, but other times I am simply ignorant until the magic reveals itself.

I only wished to convey that your magic is beautiful.

Obligingly yours,
Pearl

[ Not too long after, a letter finds its way to her in response, the handwriting on the parchment similarly neat — though apparently Emmrich was exempt from the gel pen rule. ]

My dear Pearl,

It is no intrusion at all — if anything, I am glad you would see fit to share such a thing with me. I suppose I've made little secret of what I can do, but I've long understood that such a thing is hardly a barometer by which I ought to form my expectations of the behavior of others.

And thank you, of course, for your very kind words.

If the idea does not displease you, perhaps further conversation would be better served by an environ of our own choosing, rather than another of the house's revels?

Yours in turn,
Emmrich

Emmrich,

There is some freedom here that has been lacking in my previous life. I have never had the ability to be anything less than unforthcoming though many times I'd wished it. While enjoying my privacy, I must admit that oftentimes it can become lonely.

I spend most days in the sitting room by the front parlour. It has the best light for my needlework and reading when it is too cold to venture out into the grounds. Unfortunately it has been blisteringly cold as of late, a tragedy I must only endure for a few months longer with any luck. I would be happy if you joined me there.

Still obligingly yours,
Pearl

[ it is not blisteringly cold, she is a baby. ]

( sometime after the crypt expedition, there's a letter tucked somewhere onto emmrich's person, while parisa herself is missing from his side. in regular parisa fashion, it's squirted with perfume (a necessary keepsake even in these frugal times) and signed with a kiss, in a familiar shade of lipstick. it reads: )

دورت بگردم

It's Persian. It directly translates to "let me circle around you" or, in meaning — I would do anything for you, protect you from anything, and let our bodies be synonyms to each other. When opposite crescent moons cup together like hands, they make a perfect circle. I'm sure I don't need to tell you, that so do we.

— Parisa.

[ As simple as it sounds, the letter makes him smile. He turns it over in his hands in the same way he turns the syllables she'd uttered to him around in his mind, their meaning suddenly illuminated, made more sweet.

Two days later, a response, into which has been tucked a pressed sprig of globe amaranth — unfading love: ]

My darling,

Let me circle around you — a sentiment as beautiful as the one who'd first borne it to me. Beautiful, and apt. How else to account for the way each star in the constellation of my mind turns toward your sun? In constant pursuit, yet also in constant embrace in the expanse of the sky. To call you beloved near pales in comparison.

Dare I ask if you'd begrudge me the endeavor of learning Persian? On my own time, of course, unless you've a mind to teach it to me. I'd like to know you that much better, if you'd allow it.

[ Then, replicated as best he can manage (which is, to be fair, quite well): ]

دورت بگردم
— Emmrich

( reliably, emmrich will always at the very least match parisa's schmoopiness, or more likely blow it out of the water — which in turn makes her feel a little less insane about writing him letters when there are 1. easier avenues of communication and 2. he's literally always right there, nearly within arm's reach. it's a romantic gesture, the written word, and if she was prepared to pretend it never happened in the first place, the second letter makes it clear she's aware of their game — she slaps the letter flat on his chest, sparing the kiss she usually saves for the paper to passingly smudge lipstick on the corner of his mouth. a single footstep on the map of where he's been or, as is more accurate, where parisa has. )

To my newfound pupil —

I have every reason to believe if you were not a necromancer, you might have been a poet, although I suppose the two aren't mutually exclusive. In fact, I think death might only be rivaled by love for topics of epic poetry, and the two are so often mixed, they may as well be sisters. Cousins, at least. To the poet in you: if I was a flower, which do you think I'd be? And don't say rose.

If I'm honest, I haven't spoken the language regularly in many years. The accent I wear is more French than Persian, which I've spoken a bit longer in the grand scheme of my life. Still, one never forgets their first, and I'm not in the position to deny the chance to mentor you for a change. Your first lesson is now. All Arabic script is written and read from right to left, so I imagine you wrote that backwards on instinct. That said, it's an impressive first try — you have lovely script, Emmrich.

A fair note of warning: I am not as gentle a tutor as my beloved necromancer. Of course, we both know I wouldn't dream of going easy on you. When have I ever?

With forward glances of working you to the bone,
Professor Kamali

Edited 2025-02-13 14:26 (UTC)

[ 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 — 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 — 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 — 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. ]

( 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. )

[ 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. ]

( 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.

[ 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). ]

( 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. )

[ 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

( 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. )

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