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’s fingers stilled on the antler, twisting it absentmindedly. The weight of it, familiar and solid, grounded him—but also reminded him of everything he had carried alone for years, the memory of a man who had been the closest thing to family he’d ever really known. Rane hadn’t been perfect. Not by far. But he had been there, in the spaces between harsh words and rough lessons, giving enough that an orphan boy in Halo could survive. That boy was gone, and so was the man. Just a trace in snowdrifts and whispered advice left in the margins of memory.
He exhaled slow, like the air had weight to it, and Maea’s words stuck in his head the way a splinter does. You can’t dig it out, can’t forget it’s there. Until it stops you from moving forward. That was the line, the hook. And it was true. He’d hauled his memories with him like sacks of wet sand—faces gone, hopes broken, the cold silence after. Some of it had kept him alive. Some of it had nearly buried him. Holding on hurt, but letting go felt worse. Maybe the trick wasn’t either. Maybe it was knowing which pieces to keep, even if they cut your hand when you held them. Maybe that was the whole point...
“I don’t think it gets easier,” he said finally. His voice wasn’t bitter, just flat, the way it got when you were telling the truth and didn’t like it much. He glanced toward the shrine. “Rane… he left this behind.” Damien lifted the antler, pale in the moonlight, the tips jagged like broken teeth. “I told myself it was proof. Proof he gave a damn. Maybe that he gave a damn about me. Proof that I meant something, to someone. Even if he never said it out loud.” He let out a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Thing is, this bone doesn’t hold onto love.” The word came rough, like it didn’t belong in his mouth - like it was ridiculous. He let the silence sit heavy after it for a moment, as if the truth of it was too raw to dress up with more words. "Just weight. Stink. The way blood gets into the cracks and sticks.” He turned it in his hands once more, then set it among the other offerings. As if it were just another bone. “Maybe it's not about carrying the grief. Maybe it’s just about remembering what mattered before it went to shit, and leaving the rest where it belongs.”
He glanced at her, a faint acknowledgment rather than a question, a shared understanding in the sands between them. The wind tugged at his coat again, but this time, he let it, letting it thread through the seams and spaces as if it were weaving the past into the present without pulling him under.
“I guess I’m figuring out how to do that, too.”
He exhaled slow, like the air had weight to it, and Maea’s words stuck in his head the way a splinter does. You can’t dig it out, can’t forget it’s there. Until it stops you from moving forward. That was the line, the hook. And it was true. He’d hauled his memories with him like sacks of wet sand—faces gone, hopes broken, the cold silence after. Some of it had kept him alive. Some of it had nearly buried him. Holding on hurt, but letting go felt worse. Maybe the trick wasn’t either. Maybe it was knowing which pieces to keep, even if they cut your hand when you held them. Maybe that was the whole point...
“I don’t think it gets easier,” he said finally. His voice wasn’t bitter, just flat, the way it got when you were telling the truth and didn’t like it much. He glanced toward the shrine. “Rane… he left this behind.” Damien lifted the antler, pale in the moonlight, the tips jagged like broken teeth. “I told myself it was proof. Proof he gave a damn. Maybe that he gave a damn about me. Proof that I meant something, to someone. Even if he never said it out loud.” He let out a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Thing is, this bone doesn’t hold onto love.” The word came rough, like it didn’t belong in his mouth - like it was ridiculous. He let the silence sit heavy after it for a moment, as if the truth of it was too raw to dress up with more words. "Just weight. Stink. The way blood gets into the cracks and sticks.” He turned it in his hands once more, then set it among the other offerings. As if it were just another bone. “Maybe it's not about carrying the grief. Maybe it’s just about remembering what mattered before it went to shit, and leaving the rest where it belongs.”
He glanced at her, a faint acknowledgment rather than a question, a shared understanding in the sands between them. The wind tugged at his coat again, but this time, he let it, letting it thread through the seams and spaces as if it were weaving the past into the present without pulling him under.
“I guess I’m figuring out how to do that, too.”
