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
Her protests about his arm didn’t register. He ignored them, pressing forward with one priority: stop her from bleeding. Even if his own injury throbbed sharply beneath the blood smeared across his skin, hers demanded more attention. Each shallow breath she drew tugged at the cut along her ribs, and he felt the ragged edges threaten to widen with every tremor. Pain pulsed through his forearm, sharp and insistent, but he pushed it aside. Not now.
The hollow den offered shelter, it was crude but serviceable. It'd have to do for now. The ceiling forced him to duck, and the back of the cave ended in crumbled rocks and shadow. Somewhere in that darkness, a small pair of glowing eyes watched from the rubble. Damien didn’t notice. Nothing else mattered.
He fumbled desperately through his pack, fingers slick with blood, jaw clenched as he tore a strip of cloth with his teeth and gripped the contents of his survival kit in his free hand. He set them out: needle, thread, antiseptic ointment, plain cloth — everything a woodsman carries for moments like this, moments when a mistake could be fatal.
“Hold this,” he said, pressing a strip of cloth to the wound on her side. His voice was low, clipped, no room for argument. “Keep it tight.” He guided her smaller hand to it, steadying it against her side so she could help slow the bleeding. As soon as the blood was staunched, he turned and rummaged around like a tornado.
He poured a small measure of antiseptic into a dented tin cup, setting it by the tiny fire he’d coaxed into life at the cave’s center, his movements sharp and efficient, driven by the raw urgency of the moment. The flames served double duty: to clean the needle and to lend some warmth to her trembling body.
She tried a weak smile, tried to joke, and her attempts wrenched something inside him. His jaw tightened further. “They won’t be for long if I don’t get you stitched up,” he countered, eyes darting between the ragged cut and the thread looped through the needle. There was no room for levity—only the precision of a man who had done this before, many times, under worse conditions, yet never with someone else’s life pressed so sharply into his hands.
She said his name, trying to get his attention, but he barely heard it. Every movement was hurried and yet deliberate. He returned to her side only to adjust the cloth over her ribs, pressed the antiseptic-soaked bandages in place, and prepped the needle, biting down on frustration as much as on strips of cloth.
“Theea,” he said, voice low, carrying the unspoken warning of what was coming. He pressed a folded scrap of cloth to her lips, the notion gentle but persistent. “Bite this.” For a heartbeat, his dark gaze swept over her face, sharp, assessing, as if memorizing every flicker of fear and defiance before he moved. It wouldn’t dull the pain, not really, but it gave her something to anchor to, a focus other than the knife-edge of the moment. It was the best he could do.
He ripped another strip of cloth from his pack, dampened it slightly with snow water, and pressed it against the wound to slow the bleeding. Then he grabbed the needle and thread. His hands worked fast, precise as he began the process of pulling the skin closed, puncture by puncture. He'd be sure to tie off each stitch with knots that would hold through movement and cold.
All the while, her voice—the pain, the shallow breaths, the soft curses, his name—echoed in his head. Each one pulled at his control, forcing him to swallow a tight ball of guilt. He couldn’t afford to think about the clawed ribs, the blood that had soaked both of them, or the fear that maybe he wasn’t enough. Only the stitch, only the next one, only keeping her alive until the first light of morning.
His own arm throbbed with every movement, a dull, constant pain, but he ignored it. Later, he promised himself.
The hollow den offered shelter, it was crude but serviceable. It'd have to do for now. The ceiling forced him to duck, and the back of the cave ended in crumbled rocks and shadow. Somewhere in that darkness, a small pair of glowing eyes watched from the rubble. Damien didn’t notice. Nothing else mattered.
He fumbled desperately through his pack, fingers slick with blood, jaw clenched as he tore a strip of cloth with his teeth and gripped the contents of his survival kit in his free hand. He set them out: needle, thread, antiseptic ointment, plain cloth — everything a woodsman carries for moments like this, moments when a mistake could be fatal.
“Hold this,” he said, pressing a strip of cloth to the wound on her side. His voice was low, clipped, no room for argument. “Keep it tight.” He guided her smaller hand to it, steadying it against her side so she could help slow the bleeding. As soon as the blood was staunched, he turned and rummaged around like a tornado.
He poured a small measure of antiseptic into a dented tin cup, setting it by the tiny fire he’d coaxed into life at the cave’s center, his movements sharp and efficient, driven by the raw urgency of the moment. The flames served double duty: to clean the needle and to lend some warmth to her trembling body.
She tried a weak smile, tried to joke, and her attempts wrenched something inside him. His jaw tightened further. “They won’t be for long if I don’t get you stitched up,” he countered, eyes darting between the ragged cut and the thread looped through the needle. There was no room for levity—only the precision of a man who had done this before, many times, under worse conditions, yet never with someone else’s life pressed so sharply into his hands.
She said his name, trying to get his attention, but he barely heard it. Every movement was hurried and yet deliberate. He returned to her side only to adjust the cloth over her ribs, pressed the antiseptic-soaked bandages in place, and prepped the needle, biting down on frustration as much as on strips of cloth.
“Theea,” he said, voice low, carrying the unspoken warning of what was coming. He pressed a folded scrap of cloth to her lips, the notion gentle but persistent. “Bite this.” For a heartbeat, his dark gaze swept over her face, sharp, assessing, as if memorizing every flicker of fear and defiance before he moved. It wouldn’t dull the pain, not really, but it gave her something to anchor to, a focus other than the knife-edge of the moment. It was the best he could do.
He ripped another strip of cloth from his pack, dampened it slightly with snow water, and pressed it against the wound to slow the bleeding. Then he grabbed the needle and thread. His hands worked fast, precise as he began the process of pulling the skin closed, puncture by puncture. He'd be sure to tie off each stitch with knots that would hold through movement and cold.
All the while, her voice—the pain, the shallow breaths, the soft curses, his name—echoed in his head. Each one pulled at his control, forcing him to swallow a tight ball of guilt. He couldn’t afford to think about the clawed ribs, the blood that had soaked both of them, or the fear that maybe he wasn’t enough. Only the stitch, only the next one, only keeping her alive until the first light of morning.
His own arm throbbed with every movement, a dull, constant pain, but he ignored it. Later, he promised himself.
