clock w i s e

REMI

the alchemist

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi nods, sadly. There were indeed worse ways to go, such as being skewered by a spear of ice or tearing out your own throat. Both of which the alchemist knew intimately.

Chuckling under his breath but nodding nonetheless, Remi rises, padding softly after the Madame. Were there eyes to see this, a man in a towel following Maeve to her bed wouldn't have been an unusual sight in the least. Sliding in next to her, this time not minding the smell of another in her sheets (Remi's brief 'encounter' with Sunjata on the beach hadn't imparted the smell of the man's sex in the alchemist's brain, thankfully), Remi reaches out a tentative, but steadying hand for her shoulder. "You will wake up. I promise." He whispers, and no sooner do the words leave his lips, than she is asleep.

Though it is her dream, the world is entirely of Remi's making. They sit on a beach in another world. There is a log of driftwood upon which Remi sits, with a sketch book half-open in a bag, and a green sea spread out before them. "That was not so bad, mm?" He wonders, turning to flash Maeve a radiant and appreciative smile.

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!