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 answer was a shake of the head. “Save your strength,” he said, voice gentle and low but immovable. “I’ve got it.”
The urgency that had pushed him through her stitching ebbed by degrees, and the pain in his arm came roaring up to fill the space it left behind. It wasn’t sharp anymore; it was a heavy, iron throb that kept time with his pulse. Good. Pain meant he was still here to feel it. He could use that.
He eased a bedroll from his pack and worked it open one-handed, spreading it near the fire where the heat licked the stone. The blanket followed, thick and worn but clean, and he slid it around Theea’s shoulders with a care at odds with his broad, bloody hands. “Lie down if you can. Keep your breath shallow for a bit—let the stitches settle.” His fingers lingered at the edge of the blanket for a heartbeat, as if to make sure it stayed put, as if blankets could promise safety.
The fire was a fist-sized thing, more glow than flame. He fed it shavings first, then thumb-thick sticks from a bundle in his pack, coaxing it until the flames stood. Sparks climbed the cave air and gave the shadows a nervous heartbeat. He set the dented tin close to the coals and added a splash of antiseptic; the bite of it layered over the clean, metallic tang of blood.
“Needle first,” he muttered, more to keep himself moving than for her benefit. He drew the needle through the flame until it glowed dull, then let it kiss the antiseptic. Thread followed. He flexed his bleeding hand once, twice, testing the grip, then braced his forearm across his knee and got to work.
The punctures weren’t uniform—some shallow tears where the teeth had slid, some deep bites where they’d clamped. He closed the worst of them with quick, neat stitches, pulling flesh together with a fisherman’s patience and a hunter’s economy: in, pull, tie; in, pull, tie. The others he dressed with ointment and tight band, saving his thread for what absolutely demanded it. He didn’t bother trying to be gentle; gentleness had no place in staying alive. He kept his jaw locked and rode out the hurt.
“Talk to me,” he said without looking up, steady as a metronome. “If you feel dizzy, or cold in the fingers. If the pain spikes.” It came out as instruction, but the undertow was pure worry, rough and unvarnished. When she did breathe or hiss or let a sound slip, his hands tightened reflexively, then steadied again. Her voice tugged at him, but he kept the rhythm. Stitch, knot, breathe.
The urgency that had pushed him through her stitching ebbed by degrees, and the pain in his arm came roaring up to fill the space it left behind. It wasn’t sharp anymore; it was a heavy, iron throb that kept time with his pulse. Good. Pain meant he was still here to feel it. He could use that.
He eased a bedroll from his pack and worked it open one-handed, spreading it near the fire where the heat licked the stone. The blanket followed, thick and worn but clean, and he slid it around Theea’s shoulders with a care at odds with his broad, bloody hands. “Lie down if you can. Keep your breath shallow for a bit—let the stitches settle.” His fingers lingered at the edge of the blanket for a heartbeat, as if to make sure it stayed put, as if blankets could promise safety.
The fire was a fist-sized thing, more glow than flame. He fed it shavings first, then thumb-thick sticks from a bundle in his pack, coaxing it until the flames stood. Sparks climbed the cave air and gave the shadows a nervous heartbeat. He set the dented tin close to the coals and added a splash of antiseptic; the bite of it layered over the clean, metallic tang of blood.
“Needle first,” he muttered, more to keep himself moving than for her benefit. He drew the needle through the flame until it glowed dull, then let it kiss the antiseptic. Thread followed. He flexed his bleeding hand once, twice, testing the grip, then braced his forearm across his knee and got to work.
The punctures weren’t uniform—some shallow tears where the teeth had slid, some deep bites where they’d clamped. He closed the worst of them with quick, neat stitches, pulling flesh together with a fisherman’s patience and a hunter’s economy: in, pull, tie; in, pull, tie. The others he dressed with ointment and tight band, saving his thread for what absolutely demanded it. He didn’t bother trying to be gentle; gentleness had no place in staying alive. He kept his jaw locked and rode out the hurt.
“Talk to me,” he said without looking up, steady as a metronome. “If you feel dizzy, or cold in the fingers. If the pain spikes.” It came out as instruction, but the undertow was pure worry, rough and unvarnished. When she did breathe or hiss or let a sound slip, his hands tightened reflexively, then steadied again. Her voice tugged at him, but he kept the rhythm. Stitch, knot, breathe.
