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RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-20-2025
I almost scoff when he says I’ll stay warm, but my jaw clicks shut and I look down into the fire. His hesitation tells me everything—he did mean to sleep on cold stone. The lie sits wrong. I watch him settle farther away, feel something in me knot, and I don’t know why it bothers me as much as it does.
Aria makes her opinion known by stubbornly planting herself in his lap. Trouble, indeed. I manage a small smile at her dogged persistence and don’t realize he’s watching me until he speaks. I look up, meet that steady dark gaze, and see the worry anyway—in the set of his jaw, the crease in his brow, the tension running quiet through him.
I give him a thin smile. [say]“I’m dead tired. I’ll be out when I lay down.”[/say]
Truth is, I won’t. I’m cold, and the whole left side of me aches—more than the claw marks, a deep, steady burn under everything. It’s easier to ignore when we’re talking, when the low rumble of his voice threads through the empty spaces in my head and settles like it plans to stay.
[say]“But,”[/say] I add after a beat, trading out the thin smile mask for something more smug, [say]“that is why I’m not laying down until you agree to either take this blanket or share this bedroll.”[/say]
I tip my chin at the little leopard sprawled across him. Then back to him.
[say]“Just because you’ve survived worse doesn’t mean you owe hardship anything,”[/say] I say, softer but sure. [say]“You don’t have to keep proving you can endure when warmth is within reach.”[/say]
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-20-2025
Damien’s lips pressed into a thin line, almost reflexively, at her insistence. He shot her a glance—sharp, precise, clipped—and shook his head. [say]“I don’t owe comfort to anything, either. I’ll manage,”[/say] he said, voice low, matter-of-fact, the edge of dry sarcasm threading through. The words came out almost harsher than intended, like a shield, but his eyes didn’t leave her. He wasn’t ignoring her; he was testing her persistence, gauging whether she’d actually follow through.
Aria, oblivious to his internal negotiation, flopped across his lap with a sudden, determined plop. Damien froze, the subtle coiling in his shoulders betraying the shock at the little warmth pressed against him. His hand hovered, just above her fur, as though restraining both himself and the impulse to draw closer. His jaw flexed; the crease in his brow deepened. He could see the challenge in Theea’s eyes, could read the quiet insistence beneath her thin smile. It irritated him, yes, but it also tugged at something he didn’t want to name.
A low, reluctant sigh escaped him, almost muttered, more argument with himself than with her. [say]“There’s not a lot of room,”[/say] he said, finally, his tone softer but still clipped. [say]“I don’t want to hurt you in my sleep.”[/say] It was a lame excuse, even to him, but it was enough to delay the inevitable. The real reasons—his pride, his habit of survival-first thinking, and something far less tangible—he wouldn’t voice, not tonight.
Another sigh, deeper, quieter. His hand rubbed over his face, tense muscles loosening just a fraction. [say]“Fine,”[/say] he said at last, conceding.
With careful motions, he carried Aria back toward Theea, placing her gently in her lap. Then he crouched beside the bedroll, refusing to hog blankets or crowd her. He layered his coat beneath him for padding and propped his backpack under his head as a makeshift pillow. The motion nudged a thin, black-and-silver flask loose from some hidden pocket; it clinked softly against the stone. Damien didn’t flinch, didn’t startle. He picked it up and held it toward her, expression unreadable but eyes slightly softer. [say]“Whiskey for the pain,”[/say] he said quietly, [say]“if you want.”[/say]
He lay back, arm tucked beneath his head, shoulders still stiff but less guarded than before. The firelight danced across his features, carving shadows that seemed to mirror his tension—defensive, yes, but layered with something faintly, reluctantly tender. He didn’t reach for her, didn’t move closer, yet every measured glance he threw her way betrayed a silent acknowledgment: he was listening, he was here, and despite himself, he was yielding.
RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-21-2025
His first response is so cold and sharp it nicks—I’ll manage—and a flicker of hurt cuts through me before it hardens into frustrating heat. I’m not asking whether he can survive discomfort; I’m telling him he doesn’t have to, and he knows it. The cave hums with wind around the stone lip, the fire snaps and throws restless light, and I lift my chin into that glow, meeting his dark gaze without blinking. A silent dare, bright and thin as a blade.
He only breaks eye contact because Aria abandons my lap and flops into his with a determined little thump. I don’t look away. If my ribs weren’t screaming, I’d cross my arms; instead my face does the folding for me, a flat, unimpressed line. He sighs—small, frayed at the edges—and one of my brows climbs.
“There’s not a lot of room.”
That isn't what I care about.
“I don’t want to hurt you in my sleep.”
[Say]”Damien,”[/say] I deadpan.
Even he seems to hear how flimsy that sounds. Another sigh, longer this time; some of the tension leaks out of him like heat into the cave air. Then he gives in.
Relief—not triumph—ricochets through me, loosening something tight in my chest. Smoke and antiseptic mingle on the air as I open my arms for Aria. I watch every precise motion he makes like I’m memorizing them, the fire’s copper light sliding over his hands. When he offers the flask, I eye it like it might bite, then take it, grateful. I wait until he’s settled, shadows carving his cheekbones, the wind hissing softer behind our little wall, and then I drink.
I do not expect what hits my tongue. I take too big a swallow and almost sputter; the burn tears down my throat and floods my chest, pooling in my stomach like lava. My eyes water. I press the back of my hand to my mouth and rasp, [say]“Shit.”[/say] Embarrassment prickles hot under the chill.
I shake my head, cheeks warming in the firelight. [say]“I’ve only been a little drunk once,”[/say] I confess, the words small in the cavern’s hush. [say]“First time drinking. Like… a month ago. With mix drinks. The shots were mixed too.”[/say]
Keeping my word, I let Aria clamber across me and reclaim him, a spotted heat-seeking missile. I brace and take another, smaller sip—lesson learned—before passing the flask back. Carefully, gingerly, I lower myself onto the bedroll on my good side. The world tightens to stitch-pull and breath; a hiss slips between my teeth as the fresh pain crests and ebbs. I ride it out, counting heartbeats to the crackle of the fire, to the cub’s soft, squeaky rumble.
When the wave passes, I inch the blanket over him too—whether he likes it or not. Wool whispers over his shoulder; my fingers linger long enough to make the point, to bridge the inches the wind keeps trying to steal.
[say]“If we sleep touching, we’ll both be warmer,”[/say] I murmur, voice low, the cave swallowing the edges. A beat, and I quickly add, [say]“Back to back.”[/say]
I don’t say please. I tighten my grip on the blanket instead and let the offer stand there between us like a small, stubborn fire: practical on the surface, yes—but underneath, something that says I'd ask him to even if it wasn't practical.
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-21-2025
Damien lay there stiff as the stone under his coat, eyes on the fire but not seeing it. Her words stuck in him like burrs, catching no matter how he tried to shake them loose. Just because you can endure hardship doesn’t mean you always have to. It should’ve been comfort, but instead it scraped across old bone. He’d built himself on that very belief—that pain was the only constant, and strength meant outlasting it. Was he proud of that, or just too stubborn to admit it was a wound he kept raw on purpose?
What kind of man did that make him? And worse—what kind of man even thought about easing up the moment someone warm and stubborn sat too close to the firelight?
He hated the way his gut twisted, bitter and hot, like the burn of whiskey before it settled. Hated that she could undercut him with a single look, a single insistence. Hated more that he wanted to give her what she asked.
Aria’s soft shifting didn’t break him out of it. But her voice did—the rasp of it, dry and sheepish after the drink scorched her throat. Damien rolled his head on the makeshift pillow, eyes dragging back to her. For a heartbeat the apology almost made it to his tongue, but he swallowed it. [say]“Yeah, it tastes awful,”[/say] he murmured instead, voice low, steady. [say]“Makes you wonder why people even drink it at all, huh?”[/say] He let a smirk edge into his mouth, thin and quick. [say]“But you get used to it. Or you don’t, and stick to the fruity stuff. Though I should warn you, that’d make you less of a man in my eyes.”[/say] The joke slipped out quiet, light enough to float between them, though the warmth never reached his eyes.
When she handed the flask back, he propped himself on an elbow, took a small swig—just enough to let his body settle, not enough to burn through what she might need. He capped it and set it down where he’d reach it if the night turned worse.
He watched her ease down onto the bedroll, careful with every breath. On her good side, facing him. His eyes lingered a moment too long before flicking back to the fire, his jaw working as if that could chew down the knot in his chest.
Then her fingers were tugging the blanket over him, lingering just long enough to make sure he felt it. He turned his head again, found her eyes in the flicker of light. Back to back, she said. He raised a brow, and for a second the corner of his mouth quirked at the sheer stubbornness of it.
[say]“But then you’ll be lying on your stitches,”[/say] he said, voice low, no longer sharp but heavy with something closer to frustration than refusal. [say]“If they come undone—”[/say] He cut himself off, sighed. A sound like he was tired of fighting her as much as himself.
[say]“Just… come on, then.”[/say] He shifted, rolling back enough to lift his arm, not looking at her while he did it. The words came quieter, grudging but there. [say]“It’s warmer this way anyway.”[/say]
He didn’t move closer, didn’t pull her in. But he left the space, left the choice, his arm waiting like a door only half-open.
RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-21-2025
I meet his eyes, shrugging. [say]“I dunno, I was starting to get the appeal at the last two parties I was at.”[/say] I wince a little. [say]“Helped ease the whole sticking out like a sore thumb thing.”[/say] His joke drifts between us and I chuckle, hoping to warm the suddenly cold air, but his eyes stay frosty. What did I do?
As I truly settle on the bedroll, I try not to think about the throbbing burn in my side; I fixate instead on the little lift at the corner of his lips—evidence of a smile he doesn’t quite know how to release. I want to make him smile more, make him laugh like when I tripped him during training.
I purse my lips at the thought of laying on my stitches, bedroll or not. But it would be warmer, and shivering with tense muscles all night doesn’t sound great either.
He goes on, then stops short with a resigned sigh. I wait… and then he rolls just enough to invite me into his arms. I watch his face closely, every flash of flame across the planes of it, the way his jaw flickers when he’s tense. My lips press together, but I’m still smiling, gently, as I carefully move into him.
Somehow, I fit there just right—head tucked to his chest, under his chin, right over the beat of his heart. Mine thuds hard in answer. He’s warm, solid, protective in a way I’ve got no right to, but it’s a comfort. It’s as if my muscles finally thaw; they loosen, unspooling one by one. Under the smell of blood and antiseptic, I smell him: fresh-cut wood, a forest of pine, something entirely his own.
[say]“Damien?”[/say] I murmur, tiredness creeping into my voice. I pause. [say]“I’m really glad I found you again. That you’re my friend. Don’t go away after all this, okay?”[/say] I know what guilt can do to a person, watched it put my mother, and me into isolation as it ate her alive.
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-21-2025
His brows knit at her words, the sore-thumb admission. He pictured her in rooms too loud with laughter and clinking glasses, surrounded by people who hadn’t noticed they’d made her an outsider. That knot pulled deeper in his chest, a burn he smothered with a shallow breath. She deserved to belong. She deserved to be seen. But what the hell could he say? Nothing, not when he’d given up on belonging a long time ago. He’d learned to stop showing up to the places that didn’t want him. Easier to disappear than to twist yourself trying to fit in. He couldn’t tell her that, not when she still wanted more from the world. Not when she still had hope.
And now here she was, tucking herself against him like she belonged there all along. Not like training—sparring was fire, sharp edges, adrenaline sparking off skin. This was something else, softer, quieter. It made his stomach churn with nerves, but when her head settled beneath his chin, he blew out a slow, steadying breath. His arm slid around her shoulders, careful of her stitches, his hand settling against the curve of her arm. He gave the faintest pull, pressing her into his warmth, telling her without words she could rest. She could take what he was offering.
Aria wriggled her way in closer, a spotted wedge between them, nosing at Theea’s cheek with all the subtlety of a hammer. Damien huffed a laugh through his nose, barely a sound, the ghost of amusement brushing the tension in the air.
And then Theea said it. That she was glad she’d found him again. Glad he was her friend. Glad—despite everything—that he was here. The words slid under his ribs and cut deeper than any claw. His body tensed, then loosened all at once, as though he couldn’t decide whether to fight or fold. A scoff rose in his throat, bitter, but he strangled it before it could escape. Why? Why would she be glad? She was pressed so close he knew she could feel the twitch in his jaw, the rough rhythm of his pulse. He hated that she could feel how much it rattled him.
His voice came out low, taut, almost breaking on the edges. [say]“Why — why are you glad for this, Theea? I’m the reason you’re hurt.”[/say]
The words were stripped bare, more confession than argument. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, not daring to look down at her.
RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-21-2025
Aria’s nose presses to my cheek and I can’t help the small smile that answers it. I scratch under her jaw, her pelt soft and soothing, a little bit of comfort against the ache.
So is Damien’s heartbeat—steady at first, then suddenly unsteady, a hard, fluttering thrum beneath my ear. His jaw tightens above my head and my brow knits. I let him work through it—whatever in what I said struck so hard. I think Damien carries much more pain than I knew.
When he speaks, his voice is so raw my chest tightens. The hand I’ve left on his chest strokes my thumb over his shirt, hoping it comforts. I ease back just enough to look up at him and offer the gentlest smile I can manage. Firelight catches the brown in his eyes, lighting them for the briefest flicker.
[say]“No—you’re not the reason I’m hurt,”[/say] I tell him, steady. [say]“I make my own decisions, and you’re not responsible for them.”[/say] My smile warms, tired eyes sparking with fresh earnestness. [say]“I’m glad because we won, Damien. You and me. We saved people. We did something good. And don’t you dare tell me our lightning-fast reaction times were luck. Yeah, I’m learning; I shouldn’t have gotten that close—but I did, and if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be alive to learn that lesson. And if I’m going to be a monster hunter, I should probably learn fast.”[/say]
I draw a breath. I’m known for rambling, but I don’t apologize. He needs to hear this, clearly.
[say]“These scars aren’t going to be a reminder of failure, you hear me?”[/say] I hold his gaze—dark, unwavering. [say]“They won’t be monuments to what went wrong; they’ll be proof of what we chose and survived. Don’t rewrite them as loss.”[/say]
Then I tuck myself back into him, into his warmth. I’m exhausted and hurting, but I am proud of us. [say]“Besides,"[/say] I hum, [say]"this’ll make a great story. I’m just happy you’re in it.”[/say]
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-21-2025
Aria gave a little trill at the scratch beneath her jaw, her eyes closing as she melted into Theea’s touch. Damien felt the vibration of her purr through his own ribs, a steady rumble pressed between them. He watched the cub’s contentment like it was something fragile, fleeting, something he couldn’t quite touch.
And then Theea’s words came, steady as hammer blows, each one striking its mark. She was gentle, yes, but she didn’t pull punches. She called him out plain, told him he wasn’t the reason she was hurt, that she’d chosen every step. He wanted to argue—hell, the words prickled at the back of his throat, sharp and bitter—but she kept talking, and all he could do was sit there, take it, let it sink deep where it stung.
When she said the scars wouldn’t be monuments to failure but proof of survival, something in him twisted hard. His chest felt too small for his lungs. He wanted to scoff, to shake his head, to shove away the hope in her eyes before it rooted anywhere in him. But gods help him, he believed her, at least for a moment.
She leaned back into him and every nerve in his body fired at once. He could smell her hair, faint smoke and soap and copper. He could feel the heat of her pressed tight into his side. He wanted—gods, he wanted. His jaw locked until it ached, resisting the pull to tip his chin, to catch her lips with his, to give in to the madness of how right she felt against him. He resisted because he had to. Because if he crossed that line, there’d be no going back.
And he hated himself for it. For resisting. For wanting. For not being strong enough to protect her when it counted.
The words broke loose, ragged, before he could bite them back. [say]“I wasn’t able to protect you.”[/say] Low, raw, almost swallowed. His eyes found hers, dark and firelit, and for once he didn’t look away. Everything he couldn’t say hung there instead—the apology, the ache, the guilt, the dangerous pull he was fighting with every breath.
His arm tightened the barest fraction around her, a wordless promise he couldn’t quite voice.
[say]“You joined the guild,”[/say] he said finally, rough but steadier, his chest rising under her cheek. [say]“So did I. Guess that means this—”[/say] he gave the faintest huff, humorless, [say]“—is only the beginning.”[/say]
RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-21-2025
His chest rises and falls under my head, his heart pounding, and everything in me wants to draw it out of him, make him just tell me what it is that's got him so tense, why he insists on this guilt. I feel it too - I was supposed to be paying better attention - but this feels like more than that.
And then there it is. His voice is thick and rough when he says, "I wasn't able to protect you."
I look up at him again until I find his eyes, and he doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. He's got me frozen in place all of a sudden. I don't think I could move if I wanted to, and I don't want to. I want to be closer, and something about that thought make heat rise in my cheeks.
But then his arm tightens, just enough to notice, and do get a little closer, pressed more tightly against him, suddenly hyper-aware of every place we touch. I don't look away.
[say]"You did protect me,"[/say] I whisper, as if we're in a room full of people and its just for him. [say]"First, you stepped between me and that snow leopard. I was dinner and you killed it after my mistake. I'm alive."[/say]
And then, a slow grin pulls across my lips, something sparking bright and warm in my chest. Deimos had already told me, but suddenly it feels so much better, so much more real coming from him.
Only the beginning. Those words resonated in me, and my eyes dart across his face, trying discern his expression. What I find send my stomach flipping, my mouth going dry.
[say]"You promise?"[/say]
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-21-2025
She looked up at him, met his eyes and didn’t waver. Firelight caught the flush spreading across her cheeks, that telltale warmth she always gave away around him. He noticed it the way he noticed everything about her; the way her hair broke loose and framed her face like spilled ink, catching glimmers of light as if it had its own stubborn will. Her eyes were so damned blue it stopped him every time. Not like the storybook ocean or summer sky, no. More like mountain ice, sharp and unyielding, and yet when she looked at him, it melted at the edges.
He shouldn’t be thinking of her like this. Especially not now, with blood still drying on their clothes, her stitches pulling under his arm. But he couldn’t help it. She was beautiful without trying. Maybe because she never tried. Even undone, fraying at the seams, exhaustion dragging her eyelids low—she still hit him square in the chest.
Her body pressed closer when his arm tightened around her. That thumb of hers, drawing lazy circles over his shirt—he hadn’t even realized it until just then, and suddenly every point of contact burned clear in his mind. Her chest against his ribs, her legs brushing against his, their breathing synced tight in the close heat of the bedroll. She was right there, and it made his pulse kick harder, rougher. He hated how much he wanted to stay like this. Nights like this—without all the blood, without the near-death. Or maybe it was the danger that made the closeness mean so much more, like every breath was a dare to take what they could before it was gone.
She told him he had protected her, reminded him of the leopard, of the moment his blade found its mark where she would’ve been torn apart. The words cracked something loose in him, a knot so tight it had calcified. Before he could stop himself, he breathed it out low and certain:
[say]“And I’d do it a hundred times, Theea. If it meant keeping you alive.”[/say]
The silence after was thick, filled with everything he hadn’t meant to say.
She grinned then, bright enough to hurt. His words about “only the beginning” had lit something in her. And when she asked him—you promise?—her voice carried it like a plea and a vow all at once.
It stopped him cold. He hadn’t meant it that way, not exactly. What he’d meant was duty, the grind, the endless war the guild had signed them into. But she was looking at him like he was more than that. Like he was hers.
His throat worked, dry as sand. A dozen answers warred in his skull—don’t ask me that, don’t hope for that, don’t make me break it later. But she waited, her blue-ice eyes locked on his, her heartbeat thrumming against him, and he found himself caught.
He didn’t lie. Couldn’t.
His voice dropped, low, almost tender against the weight of the dark. [say]“Yeah. I promise.”[/say]
And gods help him, he meant it.
RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-22-2025
And I'd do it a hundred times, Theea.
I don't why that strikes me so much. I've had people around to keep me safe my whole life. It shouldn't surprise me so much, I just told him myself that's what he did. And yet maybe it's the way he said it. Maybe it's the way he's looking at me.
It takes him a long time to answer what should have been an easy one. Right? A sudden dread creeps up on me—a dread that says he doesn't want to spend more time together, that he doesn't want to be my friend or make these future plans together. I want to learn more from him, I want to teach him, I want to go riding with him, or stare at the stars with him in silence, see his whittling collection, go and fight monsters together—
Yeah. I promise.
He says it so tenderly, so softly, it could be called heartbreaking. Yet the relief that washes through me is enough to let go of a deep, full breath, and I practically melt into his warmth.
My eyes flicker to his mouth, just for a moment, and my heart skips.
I swallow, a flush creeping up on me again. [say]"I promise too,"[/say] I say before I can figure that out, and shut my eyes as I tuck my head against his chest. [say]"You're stuck with me."[/say]
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-22-2025
She breathed out and somehow sank even closer into his side, like she was trying to disappear into him altogether. How small she looked there, compared to him—fragile, soft. And Damien knew that wasn’t the whole of her. Theea was sharp, clever, stubborn to the bone. She fought tooth and claw to prove she could stand on her own. But now she let herself rest in the crook of his arm, her head heavy against his chest, her voice still echoing in his ears: I promise too. You’re stuck with me.
He went silent at that, silent in the way a man could only go when the words he wanted to say were too heavy to risk. His eyes stayed fixed on the crown of her head, on the spill of raven hair against his shirt, even after her own gaze slid away and her lashes lowered.
Aria had given in to sleep already, curled tight against Theea’s chest, tiny body rising and falling with hers. But Damien couldn’t follow them into it. Not yet. Restlessness gnawed at him from the inside out, tangled with something worse—affection. Fierce, growing, dangerous. For Theea. For the cub. For both.
And in that stillness, he realized something sharp and startling: if he held onto this cub, he could hold onto this moment. He could keep a part of Theea, because Aria was tied to her. Theea had been the one to name her, to defend her. If not for Theea’s wounds dragging them to this den, the cub would’ve been left in the ruins, forgotten in the rubble to die of starvation. But she hadn’t hesitated—she’d spoken for the cub’s life as if it mattered. Not that Damien would’ve driven his blade through the little thing, not truly, but the fact she stood for it… that counted. That burned itself into him.
His hand slipped from her shoulder, paused midair like he wasn’t sure if he had the right. Like reaching for her was something forbidden. His fingers hovered, then, with a hesitance that felt almost painful, he brushed them into her hair. Coarse in places, soft in others, untamed as the woman herself. He stroked once, slow, careful, as if the act alone might shatter something fragile.
[say]“When you wake,”[/say] he murmured into the dark, the words barely more than breath, [say]“everything’s going to be fine.”[/say] A lie, maybe. Or maybe a prayer. He told himself it was for her sake, but it was as much for his.
He let his hand drift through her hair again, gentler this time, like he was lulling her down into sleep and away from the ache. [say]“I’ll carry you if I must. We’ll find a healer.”[/say] His voice had the cadence of a man reciting orders to himself, keeping the world steady one step at a time. [say]“Then I’ll ask Frey to bind the little one to me. She’s got nothing left here. The mountains are gone. There’s no home for her kind anymore.”[/say]
He let the words trail off, his thumb catching on a tangle in her hair before smoothing it free. For a breath, he just looked at her, tucked close against him, and hated how much he wanted this to last.
RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-22-2025
Between his heartbeat, his breathing, and Aria’s weight, it’s becoming difficult to stay conscious. The pain is certainly helping with that, but even that is struggling to battle with the exhaustion of fighting and wounds.
His hand leaves my shoulder, and for a moment, I think he means to let go of me — but then his fingers slip into my thick hair, and I hardly dare to breathe. When he starts to speak, for how quiet he is, I wonder if he even realizes I'm still awake. I don't want to move or speak, afraid he'll spook like a timid animal and stop what he's doing. The feeling of his hand in my hair is soothing and stirring at once, and it's an effort not to keep moving my thumb over his chest, as if that alone would be enough to chase away whatever plagues him — it’s more than just guilt over my wounds.
His hand moves through my hair again, catching on one of the small snags I can never seem to keep out of my hair, no matter how hard I try. For someone with hands like his, he's so gentle I hardly feel a tug when he frees it. I take a slow, careful breath so I don’t disturb my stitches, and I allow myself to focus more on the feeling, the moment, than the worry and the pain.
I let him keep stroking my hair, and it’s hard to stop the faint smile. I don’t know what this is, if this is normal for a close friendship—I’d never even had a friend before making the journey to Torchlin—but it’s warm. Light. Easy. I realize I’ve yet to feel nervous or out of place with Damien.
[say]”You’re not carrying me,”[/say] I finally murmur without opening my eyes, nearly asleep, yet stubbornly awake. I move a little into the hand in my hair, hoping he stays that way, that he isn’t so easy to spook. [say]"But Frey is a good idea."[/say]
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-25-2025
He let the hair fall through his fingers once more, slow and sure, like he was trying to braid calm into the night. The cave smelled of smoke and iron and the faint, sharp tang of antiseptic; everything else — the pain, the blood, the ache of not-enough sleep — narrowed to the soft pressure of her head against his chest and the tiny, contented rumbles of the cub. For a foolish, honest second he thought: keep this. Keep it all. But then practical things, the kind that had kept him alive when the world wanted to eat you, crept back in at the edges.
“You’re not carrying me,” she mumbled, half-asleep and still so defiant even when her voice got small. He let out a phantom of a laugh. [say]“Not yet,”[/say] he said, low. [say]“But if it comes to that—if the snow eats the trail or your ribs decide they won’t hold—I will. Across the tundra if I must.”[/say] He said it like a fact, not a vow wrapped in bravery, because the honest thing was he preferred facts. Promises sometimes broke on hard things.
His thumb found the small line of a fresh stitch where it pulled under her skin and he eased his hand away before the motion might spook her. [say]“Mhm. I’ll make an offering, and... I'll find the words to ask.”[/say] He didn’t know how to swear it into law, but the thought of the cub without a place in the world made his jaw clench. He would figure it out. He always did.
Sleep wanted him like a weight. The adrenaline that had kept him moving all afternoon thinned out, and in its place came a weariness that made his limbs feel woolen. That tiredness was almost honest cruelty: it made him sentimental, made his edges dull. He didn’t like the person he became when he was tired — prone to thinking soft thoughts that meant trouble later — but tonight he let a few through anyway.
[say]“You’ll make it home, Theea,”[/say] he said, softer now, the sentence more reassurance to himself than anything. [say]“We’ll get you to a healer. We’ll get you warm food and a bed that isn’t a slab of stone.”[/say] He pictured it — small hearth, someone fussing over splints and stitches or healing magics, the cub curled by the fire like she belonged there. The image was a small, stubborn light. He held onto it.
He shifted a bit, easing so his weight wouldn’t press against her. Practicality was a kind of mercy; he had to guard the things that mattered. He curled an arm closer around her shoulders, careful, not clumsy: an assertion that he was there, present, not leaving. [say]“Sleep,”[/say] he said, flat and gentle both. [say]“I’ll stay awake, keep watch for a while longer. Make sure Aria doesn't get up to something.”[/say] He tried for a wink. Tried.
Aria snuffled and rearranged herself, a small warm body insisting the world could be tender, if you let it be. Damien watched her settle, then watched Theea’s breathing for a time. He closed his eyes for one long moment and felt the night like a living thing — cold around the edges, but not hungry now.
Another low sound left him, not quite a promise. [say]“Don’t go thinking you’re not wanted,”[/say] he said into the dark, and because the cave took words and returned them softer, he added, quieter, [say]“You’re not getting rid of me, Theea.”[/say] Then he listened to the quiet — to her breathing, to the small claws kneading fabric — and he kept watch.