the bastion
The air in Stormbreak is sharp, edged with something colder than the season should allow. Flowerbirth has touched even this place, though—the wind carries the scent of sea and sky, but beneath it, there’s the quiet bloom of new growth, of life reasserting itself even here, where the Family has claimed so much.
Remi moves soundlessly through the sprawling graveyard behind the Temple, his wings tucked in tightly against his back. He shouldn't be here. Anyone with any sense would say as much, but hesitating—fearing what Stormbreak has become under Dahlia’s rule—feels like an insult to the very task Mort has given him. If devotion is measured in action, then this, too, must be part of it.
He carries armfuls of flowers, dozens upon dozens, each one carefully chosen from Mateo’s shop. They range from the simple to the rare, blooms of every color spilling from his grasp like an offering, like something bright to counterbalance the weight of loss that lingers in the stones and the earth.
As he walks, he begins laying them down. One by one.
A cluster of white lilies for those taken before their time.
Marigolds for the ones who had fought, who had burned bright and fierce.
Bluebells for the ones who had been loved, who had left behind grief and longing like footprints in the dirt.
There are too many graves. Too many names etched into stone. And though he does not know them all, he treats them as if he does, moving with the kind of reverence that one who has carried so much loss feels in his bones. Remi exhales, kneeling by one of the graves, running his fingers lightly over the carved name before setting another bloom beside it.
Now, all there is to do is wait for Deimos, and hope that the Sword wouldn't find his request to meet here odd enough to ignore.
Remi moves soundlessly through the sprawling graveyard behind the Temple, his wings tucked in tightly against his back. He shouldn't be here. Anyone with any sense would say as much, but hesitating—fearing what Stormbreak has become under Dahlia’s rule—feels like an insult to the very task Mort has given him. If devotion is measured in action, then this, too, must be part of it.
He carries armfuls of flowers, dozens upon dozens, each one carefully chosen from Mateo’s shop. They range from the simple to the rare, blooms of every color spilling from his grasp like an offering, like something bright to counterbalance the weight of loss that lingers in the stones and the earth.
As he walks, he begins laying them down. One by one.
A cluster of white lilies for those taken before their time.
Marigolds for the ones who had fought, who had burned bright and fierce.
Bluebells for the ones who had been loved, who had left behind grief and longing like footprints in the dirt.
There are too many graves. Too many names etched into stone. And though he does not know them all, he treats them as if he does, moving with the kind of reverence that one who has carried so much loss feels in his bones. Remi exhales, kneeling by one of the graves, running his fingers lightly over the carved name before setting another bloom beside it.
Now, all there is to do is wait for Deimos, and hope that the Sword wouldn't find his request to meet here odd enough to ignore.
I got a feeling inside that I can't domesticate
It doesn't wanna live in a cage,
A feeling that I can't housebreak
It doesn't wanna live in a cage,
A feeling that I can't housebreak
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.
