but baby i've been here before; i've seen this room and i've walked this floor
Remi shakes his head without lifting it, curls bent low over the small, bloodied figure in his arms. His wings arch tighter around her as Dahlia’s struggles weaken, a protective shell of brilliant feathers and trembling muscle. The sound of Flora’s voice—thready and soft, stumbling over ghosts and tea and something heartbreakingly gentle—nearly undoes him all over again. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing her damp curls back from her face, assuming her words just the prelude to unconsciousness rather than a reference to a missed appointment. “I’m sorry.”
And when she slips under, limp in his hold, Remi breathes out shakily, something between a prayer and a curse catching in the back of his throat. He doesn’t look at Dahlia. Doesn’t dare. The fact that she’s breathing at all tests the outer limits of his restraint, and it’s only Ronin’s earlier suggestion—that she might still be useful, a thread to pull—that keeps Remi from snapping her neck where she slumps.
Even now, even empty, she has too much of Flora’s blood beneath her nails.
So when Ronin speaks—when his husband’s voice floats past the static in his ears and offers the more rational path forward—Remi doesn’t laugh, though he nearly does. Instead he lifts his gaze, flicking briefly to Sunjata before settling on Ronin, and offers a short, rough exhale in reply. Agreement. Tension. Everything he doesn’t have the words for right now.
Then, without ceremony, he rises. Wings spreading slightly to keep Flora shielded, he curls her closer to his chest, her limbs cradled against his ribs as if his body alone could protect her from memory.
“I’m sure Hotaru has ways to help distract her,” he mumbles, his voice rough with wear and grief and something that sounds like gratitude buried deep in the grain. “If you and the rest of the House have a room to spare, if course.”
And when she slips under, limp in his hold, Remi breathes out shakily, something between a prayer and a curse catching in the back of his throat. He doesn’t look at Dahlia. Doesn’t dare. The fact that she’s breathing at all tests the outer limits of his restraint, and it’s only Ronin’s earlier suggestion—that she might still be useful, a thread to pull—that keeps Remi from snapping her neck where she slumps.
Even now, even empty, she has too much of Flora’s blood beneath her nails.
So when Ronin speaks—when his husband’s voice floats past the static in his ears and offers the more rational path forward—Remi doesn’t laugh, though he nearly does. Instead he lifts his gaze, flicking briefly to Sunjata before settling on Ronin, and offers a short, rough exhale in reply. Agreement. Tension. Everything he doesn’t have the words for right now.
Then, without ceremony, he rises. Wings spreading slightly to keep Flora shielded, he curls her closer to his chest, her limbs cradled against his ribs as if his body alone could protect her from memory.
“I’m sure Hotaru has ways to help distract her,” he mumbles, his voice rough with wear and grief and something that sounds like gratitude buried deep in the grain. “If you and the rest of the House have a room to spare, if course.”
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.
