Damien
and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
but i like to keep some things to myself
Midnight held the desert like something brittle, but not broken. Each breath Damien took felt thinner than the last, dry and sharp in the back of his throat. Cold coiled beneath his coat despite the weight of it, despite the years he'd lived in places colder than this. Maybe it was the emptiness that made it worse. The wind here didn’t howl like in Halo. It whispered, and left you to wonder if it was wind at all.
He hadn’t meant to wander this far from the skyship. A brief stop, they’d said, to take on some rare materials. He hadn't asked. He wasn’t here to fill the captain’s log.
The shrine rose out of the dunes with all the subtlety of a half-buried carcass, easy to mistake for natural ruin from a distance. But Damien knew better. He’d seen places like this before; shrines stitched together with reverence and grief, picked clean by wind and memory. Some had comforted him. Others had unsettled him more than he liked to admit.
He kept his distance when he saw her, a figure already seated in the shrine’s crooked shadow, head bowed against the wind. He might have turned back. He was no priest, and this wasn’t a place for conversation. But then her voice carried. Soft, like something meant only for the bones.
“I’m glad we never made that deal… Can you imagine having a whole life flooding back in, after building up an entirely different life?”
He stopped. Not because it was any of his business, but because her tone wasn’t confession so much as recognition. And because he knew what it was to feel like a ghost in your own skin.
“I should still like to be friends with Ludo, even if I am a child of Dygra now... Maybe we can play a game.”
The shrine loomed pale and silent in the dark, a structure born of grief and patience.
Still, the wind had died. The desert had ears. And some truths had a way of dragging others out behind them.
It was a private moment, or meant to be. But he was already there, already close enough to hear. So Damien stepped from the shadows, a tall figure wrapped in a heavy coat that had seen colder winds than these. His face, sharp and weathered, caught the sliver of moonlight—dark eyes steady beneath furrowed brows, a hint of stubble lining his jaw. Hands rough from years of work cradled a small carved token, fingers moving over it with a hesitant familiarity. Something he'd carried with him for years. A memento.
His voice came low, even, almost like it belonged to the quiet:
“It’s harder than it looks, carrying what’s left behind.”
“Sorry,” he added suddenly, realizing himself. “I don’t mean to intrude. Wanted to leave something while I was here.” He held a piece of an antler in his hands, twirling it absently. The worn, smooth edges caught the slivered moonlight, but he made no move to set it down — yet. Hesitation was plain in the way he lingered with it, as if - despite his claims - he was unsure whether to hold on to it or leave it behind.
He hadn’t meant to wander this far from the skyship. A brief stop, they’d said, to take on some rare materials. He hadn't asked. He wasn’t here to fill the captain’s log.
The shrine rose out of the dunes with all the subtlety of a half-buried carcass, easy to mistake for natural ruin from a distance. But Damien knew better. He’d seen places like this before; shrines stitched together with reverence and grief, picked clean by wind and memory. Some had comforted him. Others had unsettled him more than he liked to admit.
He kept his distance when he saw her, a figure already seated in the shrine’s crooked shadow, head bowed against the wind. He might have turned back. He was no priest, and this wasn’t a place for conversation. But then her voice carried. Soft, like something meant only for the bones.
“I’m glad we never made that deal… Can you imagine having a whole life flooding back in, after building up an entirely different life?”
He stopped. Not because it was any of his business, but because her tone wasn’t confession so much as recognition. And because he knew what it was to feel like a ghost in your own skin.
“I should still like to be friends with Ludo, even if I am a child of Dygra now... Maybe we can play a game.”
The shrine loomed pale and silent in the dark, a structure born of grief and patience.
Still, the wind had died. The desert had ears. And some truths had a way of dragging others out behind them.
It was a private moment, or meant to be. But he was already there, already close enough to hear. So Damien stepped from the shadows, a tall figure wrapped in a heavy coat that had seen colder winds than these. His face, sharp and weathered, caught the sliver of moonlight—dark eyes steady beneath furrowed brows, a hint of stubble lining his jaw. Hands rough from years of work cradled a small carved token, fingers moving over it with a hesitant familiarity. Something he'd carried with him for years. A memento.
His voice came low, even, almost like it belonged to the quiet:
“It’s harder than it looks, carrying what’s left behind.”
“Sorry,” he added suddenly, realizing himself. “I don’t mean to intrude. Wanted to leave something while I was here.” He held a piece of an antler in his hands, twirling it absently. The worn, smooth edges caught the slivered moonlight, but he made no move to set it down — yet. Hesitation was plain in the way he lingered with it, as if - despite his claims - he was unsure whether to hold on to it or leave it behind.
