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
Damien’s head came up at the sound of his name, slow and deliberate, as though the extra second might help him place the voice. His gloved hand lingered on the rim of his mug, fingers curling loose as he turned.
For a beat, he only looked at her. Not blankly, but with the quiet scrutiny of someone trying to match the present to an old photograph: the sharper cut of her jaw now, the flush of cold in her cheeks, the restless brightness that hadn’t dimmed in her eyes. He sat broader than she’d remember, the kind of bulk a man earned partly from age and partly from swinging an axe all day, though the work-shirt he wore—rolled sleeves showing forearms marked by faint, half-healed nicks—wasn’t so much worn with pride as because it was what he had. There was a faint smudge of sawdust on his collar and the heavy boots of a man who’d walked straight out of the treeline.
There was something familiar in her eyes, though. Something bright and stubborn that tugged at a half-buried memory of a smaller figure trailing at his heels, peppering him with questions he hadn’t had the patience to answer.
“…Theea,” he said finally, the name careful, as though it had been sitting unused in the back of his throat for years. Setting the mug down, he leaned back a fraction to take her in from this closer distance. “You’ve changed.” His voice was quiet, rough at the edges from a day’s cold air and disuse. “Last time I saw you, you barely came up to my ribs. And you were hell-bent on figuring out how my snares worked without stepping in one.”
The words carried a dry edge of humor, though it didn’t quite reach a smile. His dark eyes flicked briefly to the mug in her hands before returning to her flushed, eager expression. “So,” he said after a moment, head tilting slightly, “what are you doing back in Halo? I didn’t think this place was easy to miss once you’d managed to get away from it.”
For a beat, he only looked at her. Not blankly, but with the quiet scrutiny of someone trying to match the present to an old photograph: the sharper cut of her jaw now, the flush of cold in her cheeks, the restless brightness that hadn’t dimmed in her eyes. He sat broader than she’d remember, the kind of bulk a man earned partly from age and partly from swinging an axe all day, though the work-shirt he wore—rolled sleeves showing forearms marked by faint, half-healed nicks—wasn’t so much worn with pride as because it was what he had. There was a faint smudge of sawdust on his collar and the heavy boots of a man who’d walked straight out of the treeline.
There was something familiar in her eyes, though. Something bright and stubborn that tugged at a half-buried memory of a smaller figure trailing at his heels, peppering him with questions he hadn’t had the patience to answer.
“…Theea,” he said finally, the name careful, as though it had been sitting unused in the back of his throat for years. Setting the mug down, he leaned back a fraction to take her in from this closer distance. “You’ve changed.” His voice was quiet, rough at the edges from a day’s cold air and disuse. “Last time I saw you, you barely came up to my ribs. And you were hell-bent on figuring out how my snares worked without stepping in one.”
The words carried a dry edge of humor, though it didn’t quite reach a smile. His dark eyes flicked briefly to the mug in her hands before returning to her flushed, eager expression. “So,” he said after a moment, head tilting slightly, “what are you doing back in Halo? I didn’t think this place was easy to miss once you’d managed to get away from it.”
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
