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 huffed a soft breath—not quite a laugh, but close—as she lifted her mug and made that little ta-da gesture. Nineteen. He studied her again, this time not just for recognition, but with a kind of reluctant wonder. A few years ago, she’d been all elbows and oversized coats, boots untied, her questions never out of breath. Now she was sitting straight-backed in barlight, flushed from the cold and braver than he remembered, still talking like she had every right to be here. And maybe she did.
He let the silence hold for a moment before answering. “Frey, huh.” The name came easy, too easy to be unfamiliar. He turned his mug in his hands, not drinking, just moving it for something to do. “I’ve heard they can do that. Pull people forward. Change their shape. Make things grow where they shouldn’t. Or stop growing at all.” He spoke like someone recounting stories by firelight; half reverent, half skeptical, wholly aware he was on the outside looking in.
“They’ve always been close to the land. Nature’s teeth and tenderness, both. Makes sense they'd take interest in someone like you.” He said it without flattery. Just fact.
Then, quieter, almost to himself: “I’ve thought about seeking them out before. Just haven’t figured what I’d be asking for.”
He didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t look at her when he said it. Instead, he took a slow drink from his mug, as if the heat could ward off whatever uncomfortable truth had stirred in him. His fingers lingered near the rim, drumming once.
“Void-luxere,” he said, shifting the subject but not entirely leaving the weight behind. “Didn’t expect you to be chasing monsters.” A glance at her again—sharper, assessing not the girl he remembered but the woman she’d become. “But I guess you always had that... stubborn aim.”
When she spoke of Halo and her family, he didn’t interrupt. He just listened, still and solid beside her, letting the warmth of the fire fill in the places where words didn’t belong. He remembered the war in his own way; what it took from people, and what it left behind in them. He wouldn't try to name that for her.
“I’ve been keeping to the timberline,” he said finally. “Took a contract out near the icefields. Logging, hauling, the works..” He looked over, one brow lifted. “Monster hunting makes for a better story, though.” A flicker of dry amusement passed across his face, gone a moment later, but there if you knew to look. Then, more quietly: “You back for good? Or just until the gods tug you somewhere else?”
He let the silence hold for a moment before answering. “Frey, huh.” The name came easy, too easy to be unfamiliar. He turned his mug in his hands, not drinking, just moving it for something to do. “I’ve heard they can do that. Pull people forward. Change their shape. Make things grow where they shouldn’t. Or stop growing at all.” He spoke like someone recounting stories by firelight; half reverent, half skeptical, wholly aware he was on the outside looking in.
“They’ve always been close to the land. Nature’s teeth and tenderness, both. Makes sense they'd take interest in someone like you.” He said it without flattery. Just fact.
Then, quieter, almost to himself: “I’ve thought about seeking them out before. Just haven’t figured what I’d be asking for.”
He didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t look at her when he said it. Instead, he took a slow drink from his mug, as if the heat could ward off whatever uncomfortable truth had stirred in him. His fingers lingered near the rim, drumming once.
“Void-luxere,” he said, shifting the subject but not entirely leaving the weight behind. “Didn’t expect you to be chasing monsters.” A glance at her again—sharper, assessing not the girl he remembered but the woman she’d become. “But I guess you always had that... stubborn aim.”
When she spoke of Halo and her family, he didn’t interrupt. He just listened, still and solid beside her, letting the warmth of the fire fill in the places where words didn’t belong. He remembered the war in his own way; what it took from people, and what it left behind in them. He wouldn't try to name that for her.
“I’ve been keeping to the timberline,” he said finally. “Took a contract out near the icefields. Logging, hauling, the works..” He looked over, one brow lifted. “Monster hunting makes for a better story, though.” A flicker of dry amusement passed across his face, gone a moment later, but there if you knew to look. Then, more quietly: “You back for good? Or just until the gods tug you somewhere else?”
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
