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
Damien didn’t move, but his gaze held her in that dim space between retreat and return. The wind tugged at his coat again, cold finding the seams, threading through the rough wool and the spaces between calloused fingers. He didn’t shift away. Not yet. He could have stepped back, let her go, but there was something in the weight of her voice — the quiet residue of her own choices — that made him linger.
“Sounds like you’ve already tried,” he said, low, measured, almost conversational. It wasn’t an accusation, nor exactly a question; it was observation, offered like an open hand rather than a prod. He let the carved antler twist slowly in his palm, watching the moonlight catch along the worn edges. Each turn was deliberate, grounding him, giving him a tether to a past he carried quietly with him.
“Some lives just slip through… and all you’re left with are the pieces.” His voice caught the quiet weight of memory, but it wasn't bitter, just steady. “You think you can leave it behind… but it never truly lets you go."
"Makes you wonder what’s worth holding on to, doesn’t it?”
“Sounds like you’ve already tried,” he said, low, measured, almost conversational. It wasn’t an accusation, nor exactly a question; it was observation, offered like an open hand rather than a prod. He let the carved antler twist slowly in his palm, watching the moonlight catch along the worn edges. Each turn was deliberate, grounding him, giving him a tether to a past he carried quietly with him.
“Some lives just slip through… and all you’re left with are the pieces.” His voice caught the quiet weight of memory, but it wasn't bitter, just steady. “You think you can leave it behind… but it never truly lets you go."
"Makes you wonder what’s worth holding on to, doesn’t it?”
