REMI
the alchemist
What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold
if there's nothing that they hold
Remi’s head shakes almost at once, the motion small and easy, as though the apology has nowhere to land. "No, no—it is quite alright," he murmurs, the reassurance gentle and immediate, offered without hesitation or performance. Behind him, the twins’ cries continue to crest and fall in uneven waves, and he glances back only briefly, listening with the quiet attentiveness of someone already learning the difference between urgency and noise.
A faint, boyish lift of his shoulder follows, one corner of his mouth quirking as he looks back to her. "Sometimes a rogue wave will set them off," he adds, the comparison delivered with soft humour, as if the chaos behind him is simply another tide to be weathered rather than anything worth fretting over. His gaze drops then to the basket, and something warmer settles into his expression; gratitude, uncomplicated and sincere, threading through the fatigue. "This is very thoughtful," he says, reaching to take it from her with careful hands. "Thank you, Sohalia. Truly."
Rather than stepping aside to let her in, he eases the door gently toward its frame behind him, slipping out onto the front deck and letting it close with quiet precision, the cries muffling slightly once the barrier is between them. The movement is subtle, but intentional, and the apologetic curve of his smile returns as he shifts the basket lightly in his grasp. "Ronin is not...his best self, during Leafchange," he explains in a lowered voice, the words chosen with care but offered plainly enough, his tone carrying no weight of complaint, only context.
His fingers adjust absently at the edge of the basket, curls falling forward again as the sea breeze catches them, and he pushes them back with the side of his hand in a gesture that feels almost unconsciously habitual. "But this will help, more than you know."
A faint, boyish lift of his shoulder follows, one corner of his mouth quirking as he looks back to her. "Sometimes a rogue wave will set them off," he adds, the comparison delivered with soft humour, as if the chaos behind him is simply another tide to be weathered rather than anything worth fretting over. His gaze drops then to the basket, and something warmer settles into his expression; gratitude, uncomplicated and sincere, threading through the fatigue. "This is very thoughtful," he says, reaching to take it from her with careful hands. "Thank you, Sohalia. Truly."
Rather than stepping aside to let her in, he eases the door gently toward its frame behind him, slipping out onto the front deck and letting it close with quiet precision, the cries muffling slightly once the barrier is between them. The movement is subtle, but intentional, and the apologetic curve of his smile returns as he shifts the basket lightly in his grasp. "Ronin is not...his best self, during Leafchange," he explains in a lowered voice, the words chosen with care but offered plainly enough, his tone carrying no weight of complaint, only context.
His fingers adjust absently at the edge of the basket, curls falling forward again as the sea breeze catches them, and he pushes them back with the side of his hand in a gesture that feels almost unconsciously habitual. "But this will help, more than you know."
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.
