I'd bring you further roses

i've got a river for a soul

It is that strange in-between hour where the sky is painted with blushes of pink and bruised purple. It might be dusk or dawn, and though there are stars winking above, that offers no indication as to whether the moon is rising or falling. The air is temperate; so close to body temperature so as to be nearly indistinguishable from one's skin. Bird whisper lullabies to one another as wild horses graze in the distance, near where the field bleeds away into forest.

In the centre on a plaid blanket, sits Remi. Wearing a faded chambray shirt open at the collar and stained with oil and charcoal, he paws absently at a basket filled with bread and wine. It's cheap bread and even cheaper wine, but there's something about it that suits him as he presently is. Younger looking than in reality and having lost a good deal of his bulk, he's much closer to the man he was in Northaven once. Free of scars from life's interventions, his hair is curlier and his eyes are clearer than Maeve will have ever seen him.