REMI
The moment Remi steps into the chamber, something tightens low in his chest; memory without memory, instinct forged in the long shadow of a war they never quite got to fight in the way they’d braced themselves for. The humid heat of the Breach evaporates into something colder, older, something that feels like a hand pressed over the mouth of his soul.
As Ronin moves closer, damp clothes clinging unpleasantly where they press together, Remi leans in all the same, taking the weight of him without hesitation. The firebolts that ignite around the Knight don’t so much as twitch Remi’s expression; instead, his hand drifts to Ronin’s hip, fingers stroking a slow, soothing line meant less to quiet the flames than the man summoning them.
"Probably", he murmurs, voice subdued to match the thrum of the walls. The pulse in the stone seems to vibrate through his bones, and he lets out a slow breath as he scans the broken pods, the jagged openings, the emptiness inside them, the sealed ones that somehow look worse. "Hadn’t Vox mentioned there were more of them? Just waiting?" The thought makes something cold coil down his spine.
He gives his head a small, unhappy shake, as if to loosen the idea before it sets root. Then—because he knows Ronin, because he knows himself—Remi tries on a crooked smirk. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes but it carries the shape of comfort as he nudges Ronin lightly with his shoulder. "I bet at some point you would have been dragged down here to help," he says, keeping his tone just this side of teasing. Then he nods toward a random shadowed alcove, picking a spot with all the authority of someone inventing a history that never had the chance to happen. "And I bet you would have done something very heroic and charming over there."
His glance flicks back, sea-glass eyes softening as they study the firelight haloing Ronin’s face. "Probably saved us all while looking very handsome," he adds, voice wry but warm, fingers still ghosting steady comfort at the Knight’s hip. "Maybe you'd have even been given a new monicker for it."
As Ronin moves closer, damp clothes clinging unpleasantly where they press together, Remi leans in all the same, taking the weight of him without hesitation. The firebolts that ignite around the Knight don’t so much as twitch Remi’s expression; instead, his hand drifts to Ronin’s hip, fingers stroking a slow, soothing line meant less to quiet the flames than the man summoning them.
"Probably", he murmurs, voice subdued to match the thrum of the walls. The pulse in the stone seems to vibrate through his bones, and he lets out a slow breath as he scans the broken pods, the jagged openings, the emptiness inside them, the sealed ones that somehow look worse. "Hadn’t Vox mentioned there were more of them? Just waiting?" The thought makes something cold coil down his spine.
He gives his head a small, unhappy shake, as if to loosen the idea before it sets root. Then—because he knows Ronin, because he knows himself—Remi tries on a crooked smirk. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes but it carries the shape of comfort as he nudges Ronin lightly with his shoulder. "I bet at some point you would have been dragged down here to help," he says, keeping his tone just this side of teasing. Then he nods toward a random shadowed alcove, picking a spot with all the authority of someone inventing a history that never had the chance to happen. "And I bet you would have done something very heroic and charming over there."
His glance flicks back, sea-glass eyes softening as they study the firelight haloing Ronin’s face. "Probably saved us all while looking very handsome," he adds, voice wry but warm, fingers still ghosting steady comfort at the Knight’s hip. "Maybe you'd have even been given a new monicker for it."
Now don't you look so grand, runnin'
Through the reds of my traffic lights
Through the reds of my traffic lights
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.
