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
“When it matters… yes, I am,” he admitted, the words quick and almost reflexive, like admitting stubbornness was more virtue than flaw. He didn’t elaborate, because he didn’t have to—Theea already knew.
He noticed the small things. The slight hitch in her breath, the way her fists tightened around the blanket despite her brave face. She tried to hide it, but he knew. He felt the weight of having brought her into this danger, a twinge of guilt mixing with relief that she was still here, still alive.
“I’d probably be bleeding out if you weren’t here,” he said, pausing to level a steady gaze on her. “Anyway… there’s no need to make up some story. What you actually did… it was more than brave. No one’s ever done anything like that for me. No one. You did well, Theea. I’m the one that messed up.”
He moved with deliberate care, another stitch, a wince through the dull throb of his arm, teeth gritted through the worst of it. But she wanted to know what he did when he wasn’t working, when he wasn’t surviving day to day. Normally, he would have deflected or kept it short. Not now. Not here.
“When I’m not working… I mostly wander,” he said, voice low, almost wary of revealing too much. “Hunt. Fish. Watch the reindeer move across the tundra. Sometimes I just sit and let the world pass… count the stars at night. I read too, when I can—old books, scraps of journals. I... whittle, carve shapes out of scraps of wood.” He gave a faint shrug, as if it were too boring or ordinary. “Nothing worth telling.”
His eyes flicked briefly to her, sharp and unguarded for the fraction of a second he allowed himself. “But… sometimes, I feel like there should be more. Something I’m meant to do, something that makes everything I've been through matter. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know if I ever will. But until then… this is enough. Mostly.”
There was a quiet tension behind the words—the longing for more threaded through his matter-of-fact tone, a shadow of the hope he rarely allowed himself to name. And yet, even in admitting it, he let the hands that guided the needle steady, kept the focus sharp, as if saying the world would wait while he fixed this one small, bleeding part of it.
He cut the thread with his teeth, swabbed the seams with antiseptic, and wrapped his arm tight with clean cloth from the kit. He flexed his fingers, testing. They still had feeling and movement. Good. Only then did he let himself exhale a little deeper.
Sitting back on his heels, he finally looked at her properly. The firelight softened the pallor of her face, caught like copper and gold in her hair where it escaped her hood. The blanket swallowed her shoulders, and for a heartbeat she looked too small against the cave wall. The thought pressed against his chest, but he pushed it aside and checked her bandage again—no new seep. Good.
“Drink some,” he said, offering the waterskin from his pack. “Small sips.” He watched her carefully, then took one himself, letting it settle the copper taste before swallowing.
Handing it back, he began hauling some of the rocks from the back of the cave to the entrance, building a small shield against the wind and cold outside. The work was quiet, methodical, like everything else he did—part protection, part ritual, and part keeping the darkness at bay.
He noticed the small things. The slight hitch in her breath, the way her fists tightened around the blanket despite her brave face. She tried to hide it, but he knew. He felt the weight of having brought her into this danger, a twinge of guilt mixing with relief that she was still here, still alive.
“I’d probably be bleeding out if you weren’t here,” he said, pausing to level a steady gaze on her. “Anyway… there’s no need to make up some story. What you actually did… it was more than brave. No one’s ever done anything like that for me. No one. You did well, Theea. I’m the one that messed up.”
He moved with deliberate care, another stitch, a wince through the dull throb of his arm, teeth gritted through the worst of it. But she wanted to know what he did when he wasn’t working, when he wasn’t surviving day to day. Normally, he would have deflected or kept it short. Not now. Not here.
“When I’m not working… I mostly wander,” he said, voice low, almost wary of revealing too much. “Hunt. Fish. Watch the reindeer move across the tundra. Sometimes I just sit and let the world pass… count the stars at night. I read too, when I can—old books, scraps of journals. I... whittle, carve shapes out of scraps of wood.” He gave a faint shrug, as if it were too boring or ordinary. “Nothing worth telling.”
His eyes flicked briefly to her, sharp and unguarded for the fraction of a second he allowed himself. “But… sometimes, I feel like there should be more. Something I’m meant to do, something that makes everything I've been through matter. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know if I ever will. But until then… this is enough. Mostly.”
There was a quiet tension behind the words—the longing for more threaded through his matter-of-fact tone, a shadow of the hope he rarely allowed himself to name. And yet, even in admitting it, he let the hands that guided the needle steady, kept the focus sharp, as if saying the world would wait while he fixed this one small, bleeding part of it.
He cut the thread with his teeth, swabbed the seams with antiseptic, and wrapped his arm tight with clean cloth from the kit. He flexed his fingers, testing. They still had feeling and movement. Good. Only then did he let himself exhale a little deeper.
Sitting back on his heels, he finally looked at her properly. The firelight softened the pallor of her face, caught like copper and gold in her hair where it escaped her hood. The blanket swallowed her shoulders, and for a heartbeat she looked too small against the cave wall. The thought pressed against his chest, but he pushed it aside and checked her bandage again—no new seep. Good.
“Drink some,” he said, offering the waterskin from his pack. “Small sips.” He watched her carefully, then took one himself, letting it settle the copper taste before swallowing.
Handing it back, he began hauling some of the rocks from the back of the cave to the entrance, building a small shield against the wind and cold outside. The work was quiet, methodical, like everything else he did—part protection, part ritual, and part keeping the darkness at bay.
