REMI
the alchemist
What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold
if there's nothing that they hold
The tide has only just begun to turn when Remi makes his way up the stretch of sand toward Wildering House, the Northaven sitting steady in the small bay. Flying had seemed quicker in theory, though the truth of the matter is that very little feels quick when one has slept in scraps between the restless rhythms of two newborns, and even less so when one has spent the better part of the morning pacing the deck with a babe draped across his shoulder while the other protested the injustice of existence somewhere behind him. The demigod cuts a rather different figure than the composed Bastion most are used to seeing: curls a touch more unruly than usual from hands run through them too many times, the faint bruise of exhaustion lingering beneath otherwise bright eyes, and the quiet, careful gait of a man whose body still expects a small head to be tucked beneath his chin at any moment.
Still, he manages the distance with the ease of someone long accustomed to moving between sea and shore, the wind lifting his shirt slightly as he climbs the last gentle slope from beach to house. When the patio doors come into view he pauses only long enough to draw in a steadying breath, pressing the heel of his hand briefly against one eye before crossing the threshold. The house seems to expect him, because the doors yield without protest, and somewhere deeper within the halls a flicker of candlelight drifts obligingly down a corridor like a patient guide.
He hesitates only briefly at the doorway, as though collecting himself before intruding upon someone else's thoughts, and then steps inside with the sort of unhurried presence that carries neither authority nor apology too loudly in its wake. His hand lifts almost automatically to ruffle through his curls—an absent, apologetic gesture more than a conscious one—as a tired but genuine smile finds its way onto his face. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting," Remi says, his voice touched by the soft cadence of the travelling tongue and perhaps just a hint of the weariness that accompanies two very small tyrants ruling his nights. His gaze flicks briefly to the basket Liam has brought, something like quiet amusement warming the corners of his eyes before it settles more properly on the man himself. "Though I suspect you may understand why punctuality has become something of an optimistic concept in my household lately."
Still, he manages the distance with the ease of someone long accustomed to moving between sea and shore, the wind lifting his shirt slightly as he climbs the last gentle slope from beach to house. When the patio doors come into view he pauses only long enough to draw in a steadying breath, pressing the heel of his hand briefly against one eye before crossing the threshold. The house seems to expect him, because the doors yield without protest, and somewhere deeper within the halls a flicker of candlelight drifts obligingly down a corridor like a patient guide.
He hesitates only briefly at the doorway, as though collecting himself before intruding upon someone else's thoughts, and then steps inside with the sort of unhurried presence that carries neither authority nor apology too loudly in its wake. His hand lifts almost automatically to ruffle through his curls—an absent, apologetic gesture more than a conscious one—as a tired but genuine smile finds its way onto his face. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting," Remi says, his voice touched by the soft cadence of the travelling tongue and perhaps just a hint of the weariness that accompanies two very small tyrants ruling his nights. His gaze flicks briefly to the basket Liam has brought, something like quiet amusement warming the corners of his eyes before it settles more properly on the man himself. "Though I suspect you may understand why punctuality has become something of an optimistic concept in my household lately."
And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?
if you bury them all alone?
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.
