For a moment the alchemist thinks that perhaps this is a mistake. As his name falls from this relative stranger's lips, he considers making some excuse or another and leaving the deliciously scented place. It is too much all of a sudden, and he doesn't want to answer questions about what happened, how he was feeling, or worse of course, about Ronin.
But then Amalia's eyes are on Aoife, and for a moment Remi is reminded of the dark richness of her gaze. Some might say it is like chocolate, sweet and dark, but of course that isn't it. That's too easy, too obvious. He thinks perhaps it's like a certain kind of tea; inky-water, not quite immediately sweet, but not necessarily an acquired taste either. The sort of thing you'd pine for, if ever you had the chance to taste it
Smiling down at Amalia, Remi realizes that his hands had tensed protectively around the girl, and seeing the unassuming smile of the baker, he relaxes. Perhaps it is something inside of his soul recognizing something inside of hers—the lack of whatever it is that makes men and women awkward around each other, the way her eyes shine for Aoife, the calming smell of her shop—but like his hands, Remi relaxes somewhat.
"Aoife." The alchemist repeats. The sing-song cadence of her name is somewhat dimmed by his accent, but still it sounds like a melody even if the alchemist does not feel like singing. Sweeping his fingers gently over what will soon be a mop of curls, Remi's lips try to rise into a smile. "She is indeed. Safrin protected her even before she was born." He adds trying to make the words soft enough to hide the way his voice wants to shake at the subtle implication of what—who—it was Safrin was unable to protect.
But then Amalia's eyes are on Aoife, and for a moment Remi is reminded of the dark richness of her gaze. Some might say it is like chocolate, sweet and dark, but of course that isn't it. That's too easy, too obvious. He thinks perhaps it's like a certain kind of tea; inky-water, not quite immediately sweet, but not necessarily an acquired taste either. The sort of thing you'd pine for, if ever you had the chance to taste it
Smiling down at Amalia, Remi realizes that his hands had tensed protectively around the girl, and seeing the unassuming smile of the baker, he relaxes. Perhaps it is something inside of his soul recognizing something inside of hers—the lack of whatever it is that makes men and women awkward around each other, the way her eyes shine for Aoife, the calming smell of her shop—but like his hands, Remi relaxes somewhat.
"Aoife." The alchemist repeats. The sing-song cadence of her name is somewhat dimmed by his accent, but still it sounds like a melody even if the alchemist does not feel like singing. Sweeping his fingers gently over what will soon be a mop of curls, Remi's lips try to rise into a smile. "She is indeed. Safrin protected her even before she was born." He adds trying to make the words soft enough to hide the way his voice wants to shake at the subtle implication of what—who—it was Safrin was unable to protect.
I forgot what it was like, to think I found you finally
What if you were the one for me? I hope you weren't the one for me
What if you were the one for me? I hope you weren't the one for me
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.
