DAMIEN
I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak
I'm angry and I know that's weak
Her voice carries easily, smooth and warm against the bite of the air.
Damien quickly realizes this isn’t going to be one of those handshake-and-get-it-done jobs between two woodsmen. Whoever she is clearly operates on a different level. Which is fine, he tells himself. He’d like a better idea of what this job’s actually for anyway. So far all he’s been told is cut timber and plenty of it, and he’s been running men ragged to keep the work moving. The woman stands a little straighter than most, the kind of person who belongs anywhere she chooses to stand.
On another day, when he wasn’t two days behind and short three good workers, he might’ve connected the name Flora to the Flora. Queen of Torchline. But his brain isn’t firing on all cylinders and this woman feels a world away from the usual logging contracts he takes. The ribbon glinting through her braid, the fine green cloak pinned at her collar, the pint-sized dragon flying alongside her - none of it matches the slapdash urgency of his lumber crew.
“Flora,” he says, voice even, as if repeating the name will file it somewhere useful in his brain, “I’m Damien Ulfsen, foreman—sometimes. Felix’ll see to your horse.”
He flicks a hand toward the boy lingering nearby. Felix can’t be older than eighteen and is staring at Flora with wide-eyed fascination, but he stumbles into motion quickly enough to take the reins. Damien doesn’t bother with whatever’s gotten into him; he’s already nodding toward the largest tent at the edge of the clearcut.
The storage tent is built broad and tall because it has to be. Rows of treated timber fill most of its length, along with stacks of tools and bundled tarps. A few long tables run the center: most littered with wood samples, measuring calipers, and half-drawn plans, but one or two are clear enough to serve as dining space when the crew’s off shift. It’s not impressive, but it’s a lot warmer than the cutting fields thanks to the wood-burning stove.
He starts toward the tent, trusting she’ll follow. Halfway there, Flora makes her comment about splinters and wood. Damien glances back over his shoulder, a spark of humor flickering in his eyes and tugging at one corner of his mouth.
When they reach the tent, he pulls the door flap aside and holds it open for her. “Let’s see if I can't teach you a fourth,” he says, the joke dry and understated.
Inside, the warmth hits immediately, smelling of pine resin, sawdust, and stale coffee. Damien knocks the snow off his boots, gestures toward the racks of spruce and pine lining the walls, thick cuts stacked and sealed for transport. Evergreen staples that’ll last decades if they’re worked right.
“I can tell you anything you want to know,” he offers, voice grounded and steady as stone as he continues, “and I’m not in the business of taking advantage of anyone. No one told me much about the project, just that it’s going to be big. We’re a little behind, but that works in your favor. Still time for changes if you’re not happy with the quality.”
Finally, he takes a proper moment to look at her—there's a breath of quiet now that the wind and noise are behind them. She carries herself like someone used to command, but she’s also traveled far to be here. She doesn’t look worn, but Damien's pretty damn sure she's had a long journey. That earns her a sliver more of his respect, and consideration.
“You want something to drink?” he asks, moving toward the stove, “don’t have much, but I make a decent pot of coffee. Or there’s whiskey, if you need something stronger.”
Damien quickly realizes this isn’t going to be one of those handshake-and-get-it-done jobs between two woodsmen. Whoever she is clearly operates on a different level. Which is fine, he tells himself. He’d like a better idea of what this job’s actually for anyway. So far all he’s been told is cut timber and plenty of it, and he’s been running men ragged to keep the work moving. The woman stands a little straighter than most, the kind of person who belongs anywhere she chooses to stand.
On another day, when he wasn’t two days behind and short three good workers, he might’ve connected the name Flora to the Flora. Queen of Torchline. But his brain isn’t firing on all cylinders and this woman feels a world away from the usual logging contracts he takes. The ribbon glinting through her braid, the fine green cloak pinned at her collar, the pint-sized dragon flying alongside her - none of it matches the slapdash urgency of his lumber crew.
“Flora,” he says, voice even, as if repeating the name will file it somewhere useful in his brain, “I’m Damien Ulfsen, foreman—sometimes. Felix’ll see to your horse.”
He flicks a hand toward the boy lingering nearby. Felix can’t be older than eighteen and is staring at Flora with wide-eyed fascination, but he stumbles into motion quickly enough to take the reins. Damien doesn’t bother with whatever’s gotten into him; he’s already nodding toward the largest tent at the edge of the clearcut.
The storage tent is built broad and tall because it has to be. Rows of treated timber fill most of its length, along with stacks of tools and bundled tarps. A few long tables run the center: most littered with wood samples, measuring calipers, and half-drawn plans, but one or two are clear enough to serve as dining space when the crew’s off shift. It’s not impressive, but it’s a lot warmer than the cutting fields thanks to the wood-burning stove.
He starts toward the tent, trusting she’ll follow. Halfway there, Flora makes her comment about splinters and wood. Damien glances back over his shoulder, a spark of humor flickering in his eyes and tugging at one corner of his mouth.
When they reach the tent, he pulls the door flap aside and holds it open for her. “Let’s see if I can't teach you a fourth,” he says, the joke dry and understated.
Inside, the warmth hits immediately, smelling of pine resin, sawdust, and stale coffee. Damien knocks the snow off his boots, gestures toward the racks of spruce and pine lining the walls, thick cuts stacked and sealed for transport. Evergreen staples that’ll last decades if they’re worked right.
“I can tell you anything you want to know,” he offers, voice grounded and steady as stone as he continues, “and I’m not in the business of taking advantage of anyone. No one told me much about the project, just that it’s going to be big. We’re a little behind, but that works in your favor. Still time for changes if you’re not happy with the quality.”
Finally, he takes a proper moment to look at her—there's a breath of quiet now that the wind and noise are behind them. She carries herself like someone used to command, but she’s also traveled far to be here. She doesn’t look worn, but Damien's pretty damn sure she's had a long journey. That earns her a sliver more of his respect, and consideration.
“You want something to drink?” he asks, moving toward the stove, “don’t have much, but I make a decent pot of coffee. Or there’s whiskey, if you need something stronger.”
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
