These are the last blues we're ever gonna have
I saw him at the festival.
It’s such a normal sentence. It should be such a normal sentence.
Remi stands there, fingers still digging into the bread in his hands, but he doesn’t feel it anymore. Doesn’t feel the press of crust against his skin, doesn’t smell the warm spice of the market or hear the mingling voices around them.
All he feels is the weight of Sunjata’s words.
I confirmed it at the funeral.
The funeral. Seren’s funeral. When Ronin was—
Remi’s breath leaves him all at once, torn from his lungs like it’s been stolen. He can barely see Sunjata now, barely register the tension in the Flood’s jaw, the quiet grief threading through his voice.
His mind is moving too fast, careening violently through memories of the past few days, past few weeks. How many nights had he lain beside Ronin, listening to him breathe, watching the way grief hollowed him out like a man barely holding himself together? How many times had he touched him, curled fingers against the nape of his neck, traced his jaw, kissed his temple? A shudder wracks through him, his grip tightening around the loaf until it starts to crumble apart in his palm.
Through the bond, his voice is a raw, tangled thing. Them. Is that what Ronin was now? One of them?
"He...he came back from Stormbreak and said he'd seen Dahlia. That she'd threatened to kill our children if he interfered with their plans." Remi's seaglass stare widens as he forces himself to see Sunjata rather than just a gnawing void of purple. "It must have been then."
No longer a leader, Remi hadn't received the notes from Deimos detailing what had happened in Halo, and so with a shuddering sigh he straightened, their next move seeming quite clear. "Will you help me bring him to Halo?"
It’s such a normal sentence. It should be such a normal sentence.
Remi stands there, fingers still digging into the bread in his hands, but he doesn’t feel it anymore. Doesn’t feel the press of crust against his skin, doesn’t smell the warm spice of the market or hear the mingling voices around them.
All he feels is the weight of Sunjata’s words.
I confirmed it at the funeral.
The funeral. Seren’s funeral. When Ronin was—
Remi’s breath leaves him all at once, torn from his lungs like it’s been stolen. He can barely see Sunjata now, barely register the tension in the Flood’s jaw, the quiet grief threading through his voice.
His mind is moving too fast, careening violently through memories of the past few days, past few weeks. How many nights had he lain beside Ronin, listening to him breathe, watching the way grief hollowed him out like a man barely holding himself together? How many times had he touched him, curled fingers against the nape of his neck, traced his jaw, kissed his temple? A shudder wracks through him, his grip tightening around the loaf until it starts to crumble apart in his palm.
Through the bond, his voice is a raw, tangled thing. Them. Is that what Ronin was now? One of them?
"He...he came back from Stormbreak and said he'd seen Dahlia. That she'd threatened to kill our children if he interfered with their plans." Remi's seaglass stare widens as he forces himself to see Sunjata rather than just a gnawing void of purple. "It must have been then."
No longer a leader, Remi hadn't received the notes from Deimos detailing what had happened in Halo, and so with a shuddering sigh he straightened, their next move seeming quite clear. "Will you help me bring him to Halo?"
the glow of the cities below lead us back to the places that we never should have left
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.
