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 shifted his weight on the ladder, testing the angle of the next shingle before levering it loose. The cold had stiffened the wood, and the nails resisted like they were trying to hold onto winter itself. One popped free with a sharp, metallic snap, and he stacked it neatly with the others. Three more followed, each demanding the same careful attention. Precision was tedious, but it was work that rewarded the patient. No one came in shouting, no one demanded speed. Just him, the roof, and the quiet rhythm of tasks done properly.
His gaze flicked to Kaisel again, who had finally found some rhythm with the frozen earth. Damien allowed himself a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—a small victory, if only for the amusement of watching someone else wrestle with stubborn material. The younger man reminded him, fleetingly, of his own youthful folly; to be so eager and only to have things collapse on top of him. Not that he ever admitted those times. Not that anyone asked.
He tapped another shingle into place, hearing the dull thunk of nails sinking, and realized how soothing this was. It wasn’t exciting, wasn’t heroic, but it was methodical, exact, tangible. In another life, maybe this was all he’d need: a steady rhythm, tools in hand, problems solved in the simple satisfaction of skill applied. Do you think “Bob the Builder” ever felt this level of quiet satisfaction or was it all just cartoon cheer?
The wind cut across the roof, carrying the faint scent of frozen pine and smoke from the hearth below. He paused to glance at the stacks of cedar, neat and ready, and at the ladder, at Kaisel’s determined effort with Noah’s instruction. The scene had a certain balance to it: frozen earth meeting warmed cedar, careful hands and clumsy ones, effort and result.
Damien shifted the next shingle into place, hammered it steady, and finally allowed himself a thought he wouldn’t voice: Could be worse. Could be snowing harder. Could be me digging in that dirt.
The shingles lined up neatly now, each row overlapping the last, and he leaned back for a moment, eyes scanning the work. A corner of the roof needed a slightly trickier fit, nails splitting again even under his careful tap. A minute of adjustment later, it sat flush. The rhythm resumed. His mind wandered, as it liked to do on repetitive work: the way things changed from season to season, how a trapper’s life was all angles and patience, and how, somewhere along the way, all these small efforts added up into a life that might look ordinary to others—but it was a life that mattered all the same.
He tapped the last of the row in place, then leaned on the ladder for a second. Fingers stiff, back cold, face wind-bitten, but steady. The roof wasn’t perfect, not yet, but it was certainly approaching that. He glanced down at Kaisel and Noah again. Their words reached him, carried faintly from below as Noah prepared the first brace. Because this is where I belong… Damien let the phrase drift and echo through his mind, a soft contrast to the cold wind and the scraping nails beneath his fingers. Belonging. A simple word, but heavy. He understood it, in the way of quiet accumulation of effort and routine and respect for the land that shaped a person.
This was home, in its own harsh, unyielding way. It demanded a lot; patience, skill, endurance... But it also gave back—shelter, sustenance, structure—if you were willing to work for it.
“You get used to it,” he chimed in, almost like a statement of fact. “Cold, hard ground, harsh winters… but Noah's right, it teaches you. Makes the work mean that much more.”
lunar expositions a lot and Damien is quite determined to get this roof done right.
His gaze flicked to Kaisel again, who had finally found some rhythm with the frozen earth. Damien allowed himself a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—a small victory, if only for the amusement of watching someone else wrestle with stubborn material. The younger man reminded him, fleetingly, of his own youthful folly; to be so eager and only to have things collapse on top of him. Not that he ever admitted those times. Not that anyone asked.
He tapped another shingle into place, hearing the dull thunk of nails sinking, and realized how soothing this was. It wasn’t exciting, wasn’t heroic, but it was methodical, exact, tangible. In another life, maybe this was all he’d need: a steady rhythm, tools in hand, problems solved in the simple satisfaction of skill applied. Do you think “Bob the Builder” ever felt this level of quiet satisfaction or was it all just cartoon cheer?
The wind cut across the roof, carrying the faint scent of frozen pine and smoke from the hearth below. He paused to glance at the stacks of cedar, neat and ready, and at the ladder, at Kaisel’s determined effort with Noah’s instruction. The scene had a certain balance to it: frozen earth meeting warmed cedar, careful hands and clumsy ones, effort and result.
Damien shifted the next shingle into place, hammered it steady, and finally allowed himself a thought he wouldn’t voice: Could be worse. Could be snowing harder. Could be me digging in that dirt.
The shingles lined up neatly now, each row overlapping the last, and he leaned back for a moment, eyes scanning the work. A corner of the roof needed a slightly trickier fit, nails splitting again even under his careful tap. A minute of adjustment later, it sat flush. The rhythm resumed. His mind wandered, as it liked to do on repetitive work: the way things changed from season to season, how a trapper’s life was all angles and patience, and how, somewhere along the way, all these small efforts added up into a life that might look ordinary to others—but it was a life that mattered all the same.
He tapped the last of the row in place, then leaned on the ladder for a second. Fingers stiff, back cold, face wind-bitten, but steady. The roof wasn’t perfect, not yet, but it was certainly approaching that. He glanced down at Kaisel and Noah again. Their words reached him, carried faintly from below as Noah prepared the first brace. Because this is where I belong… Damien let the phrase drift and echo through his mind, a soft contrast to the cold wind and the scraping nails beneath his fingers. Belonging. A simple word, but heavy. He understood it, in the way of quiet accumulation of effort and routine and respect for the land that shaped a person.
This was home, in its own harsh, unyielding way. It demanded a lot; patience, skill, endurance... But it also gave back—shelter, sustenance, structure—if you were willing to work for it.
“You get used to it,” he chimed in, almost like a statement of fact. “Cold, hard ground, harsh winters… but Noah's right, it teaches you. Makes the work mean that much more.”
lunar expositions a lot and Damien is quite determined to get this roof done right.
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
