the bastion
i don't want the world to see me,
because I don't think they'd understand
because I don't think they'd understand
Another funeral. Another lantern that will be made for the Festival of Lights. Another reason for sleepless nights and soul-deep scars. Another daughter, gone.
Remi had kept his distance from the lighthouse, knowing that Ronin had needed that time alone. Now, though, he stands at the edge of the gathered mourners, his fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves as he watches the flickering torches cast long shadows across the pyre. He doesn’t speak immediately, doesn’t even know what words would matter here, though he does extend a pulse of recognition for those in attendance through the attuned bond, before nodding to Flora and Mateo. Then, he kneels, his movements slow and deliberate as he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small, carefully folded piece of parchment.
It’s nothing grand. Just a scrap of paper, worn at the edges, covered in tiny sketches of constellations—some real, some imagined. Seren had once told him the stars spoke in stories, and though they'd never had the chance to share more than a few between them, the memory had never left him. He smooths the paper between his fingers for a moment before tucking it beneath the linen that covers her, letting it settle against the fabric embroidered with stars.
"I’m sorry," he murmurs, the words barely more than breath. Sorry for what? That she was gone? That he hadn’t had more time with her? That no matter how much they tried, their family always seemed to be standing at the edge of a grave?
His throat works around the knot that has formed there, and he lingers only a moment longer before he rises, exhaling shakily as he steps back, his gaze flickering toward Ronin before moving slowly toward his husband and reaching for the Knight's hand.
Remi had kept his distance from the lighthouse, knowing that Ronin had needed that time alone. Now, though, he stands at the edge of the gathered mourners, his fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves as he watches the flickering torches cast long shadows across the pyre. He doesn’t speak immediately, doesn’t even know what words would matter here, though he does extend a pulse of recognition for those in attendance through the attuned bond, before nodding to Flora and Mateo. Then, he kneels, his movements slow and deliberate as he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small, carefully folded piece of parchment.
It’s nothing grand. Just a scrap of paper, worn at the edges, covered in tiny sketches of constellations—some real, some imagined. Seren had once told him the stars spoke in stories, and though they'd never had the chance to share more than a few between them, the memory had never left him. He smooths the paper between his fingers for a moment before tucking it beneath the linen that covers her, letting it settle against the fabric embroidered with stars.
"I’m sorry," he murmurs, the words barely more than breath. Sorry for what? That she was gone? That he hadn’t had more time with her? That no matter how much they tried, their family always seemed to be standing at the edge of a grave?
His throat works around the knot that has formed there, and he lingers only a moment longer before he rises, exhaling shakily as he steps back, his gaze flickering toward Ronin before moving slowly toward his husband and reaching for the Knight's hand.
when everything's meant to be broken,
i just want you to know who I am
i just want you to know who I am
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
