the darkness falls around me at night
I watch the way his smile falters—thin and practiced, more habit than ease—and I feel the shift beneath it. The weight pressing down. The way his voice wraps around the past like it never quite left.
I’ve seen it before. That kind of grief that doesn’t scream, doesn’t sob—just stays. Heavy and constant and stitched into the quiet moments between sentences.
"You carry it well," I say, softly. "Not like it doesn’t weigh anything. But like you’ve learned how to move with it. Like a part of you grew around it."
My parents never quite managed that. My mother would say they’d “made peace,” but it wasn’t peace—it was a kind of silence. A hibernation of pain. There were days she wouldn’t speak at all. Days my dad would stare too long at nothing, like ghosts were standing just behind his shoulder.
They didn’t always know how to take things as they came. They were always bracing for the next blow. Maybe that’s why they tried to keep me so far from everything. So I wouldn’t have to grow around anything—so I’d never be broken in the first place.
I glance away, toward the trees. There’s a phantom ache where the antler struck me, and suddenly it feels like a harbinger. Like the beginning of a long, slow list. What else is coming? The question curls cold and deep along my spine.
This path I chose—it’s barely started. And already there’s blood in the snow and fear in my chest. I don’t know what’s coming for me next. And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t wondered, more than once, if I should’ve just stayed. If leaving my mother was a mistake. If the dangers ahead will make this wound feel like a skinned knee in comparison.
But I look at Deimos.
At the scars he carries. The way he moves through the cold like it’s nothing. How easily he pulled those luxere apart—not cruelly, not carelessly, just… precisely. With the kind of skill that’s only earned. His face is sharp and weathered, and I’d be a fool to think he started that way. Ronin didn’t. Remi didn’t.
I wonder what it cost him.
But then I remember what he said. His son. His partner. The warmth he’s built inside this frozen place. The people he’s willing to fight for. Protect. The things he’s still trying to keep safe. And I remind myself: those things exist. Even after everything. Even after the worst has happened.
"I think I’m only just starting to understand what it really means to fight for something," I murmur, half to him, half to the wind. "And I hope I can hold on to that like you do, when it gets worse."
I’ve seen it before. That kind of grief that doesn’t scream, doesn’t sob—just stays. Heavy and constant and stitched into the quiet moments between sentences.
"You carry it well," I say, softly. "Not like it doesn’t weigh anything. But like you’ve learned how to move with it. Like a part of you grew around it."
My parents never quite managed that. My mother would say they’d “made peace,” but it wasn’t peace—it was a kind of silence. A hibernation of pain. There were days she wouldn’t speak at all. Days my dad would stare too long at nothing, like ghosts were standing just behind his shoulder.
They didn’t always know how to take things as they came. They were always bracing for the next blow. Maybe that’s why they tried to keep me so far from everything. So I wouldn’t have to grow around anything—so I’d never be broken in the first place.
I glance away, toward the trees. There’s a phantom ache where the antler struck me, and suddenly it feels like a harbinger. Like the beginning of a long, slow list. What else is coming? The question curls cold and deep along my spine.
This path I chose—it’s barely started. And already there’s blood in the snow and fear in my chest. I don’t know what’s coming for me next. And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t wondered, more than once, if I should’ve just stayed. If leaving my mother was a mistake. If the dangers ahead will make this wound feel like a skinned knee in comparison.
But I look at Deimos.
At the scars he carries. The way he moves through the cold like it’s nothing. How easily he pulled those luxere apart—not cruelly, not carelessly, just… precisely. With the kind of skill that’s only earned. His face is sharp and weathered, and I’d be a fool to think he started that way. Ronin didn’t. Remi didn’t.
I wonder what it cost him.
But then I remember what he said. His son. His partner. The warmth he’s built inside this frozen place. The people he’s willing to fight for. Protect. The things he’s still trying to keep safe. And I remind myself: those things exist. Even after everything. Even after the worst has happened.
"I think I’m only just starting to understand what it really means to fight for something," I murmur, half to him, half to the wind. "And I hope I can hold on to that like you do, when it gets worse."
Theea
and covers me in silence so bright
