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 grabbed a spare hammer and a pry bar from the assorted tools. He hoisted the ladder against the steep west slope of the roof, testing its angle with a practiced eye before climbing. The wood groaned faintly underfoot as he reached the shingles, worn and curling like brittle leaves ready to peel away. The work was simply enough, a familiar rhythm. No need for fanfare or cheer—he didn’t need to be a showman. Though, if he had to entertain, Kaisel’s mental image of him as a grumpy Bob the Builder would’ve been... amusing. A man who built things without so much as a “Can we fix it?”—more like a quiet “We will, or it won’t matter.”
First, he lifted the damaged shingles, careful to slide the pry bar beneath without tearing the intact ones nearby. Each slate came loose with a dull pop, the nails rusted and stubborn in the cold. He pried them free and stacked the old shingles in neat piles, ready to be hauled down.
The new shingles were heavier but fresh—solid cedar, their edges crisp and uniform. Damien slid the first row into place at the lower edge, aligning each one with a precise, measured tap of the hammer. Nails went in just enough to hold firm without splitting the wood beneath. He worked methodically, moving up the slope, overlapping each shingle like scales on a fish, sealing the roof against the coming thaw.
His breath steamed in the cold air as he glanced toward the clearing where Kaisel was wrestling with the frozen earth. A muffled grunt carried up on the wind.
“Hey,” Damien called down, voice steady and dry, “try levering the shovel a bit more before forcing it straight down. Like how you'd use a crowbar. Frozen dirt breaks easier if you let it give first.”
Damien the Builder works on replacing the shingles and tries to be helpful.
First, he lifted the damaged shingles, careful to slide the pry bar beneath without tearing the intact ones nearby. Each slate came loose with a dull pop, the nails rusted and stubborn in the cold. He pried them free and stacked the old shingles in neat piles, ready to be hauled down.
The new shingles were heavier but fresh—solid cedar, their edges crisp and uniform. Damien slid the first row into place at the lower edge, aligning each one with a precise, measured tap of the hammer. Nails went in just enough to hold firm without splitting the wood beneath. He worked methodically, moving up the slope, overlapping each shingle like scales on a fish, sealing the roof against the coming thaw.
His breath steamed in the cold air as he glanced toward the clearing where Kaisel was wrestling with the frozen earth. A muffled grunt carried up on the wind.
“Hey,” Damien called down, voice steady and dry, “try levering the shovel a bit more before forcing it straight down. Like how you'd use a crowbar. Frozen dirt breaks easier if you let it give first.”
Damien the Builder works on replacing the shingles and tries to be helpful.
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
