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
For a long moment, Damien said nothing. Theea’s words—you didn’t mess up—hung in the cave’s dim air like breath turning to frost. He wanted to believe her. Wanted to take it in, let it settle somewhere softer than the hard, splintered place inside his chest where he kept the tally of his failures. But he couldn’t. Not fully.
His jaw worked, the muscle tight, a shadow carving deeper into his cheek in the flickering firelight. He kept stacking stones at the mouth of the cave, one after another, the scrape and grind of rock filling the silence between them. The weight of what she’d said pressed down, heavier than the stones.
“You don’t know,” he said finally, his voice low, rough. “I invited you into this. I knew what was out here, and I thought you could handle it. Thought you could handle it because I wanted to believe you were as capable as me. Maybe more. That’s why I brought you.” His hands paused, stone held in midair, then set down with more care than it deserved. “And maybe I wasn’t wrong. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re hurt because of me.”
The stone wall was waist-high, nearly finished, but his eyes weren’t on it anymore. They were on the fire, on the shadows moving against the wall like smoke. “I underestimated her,” he admitted, the words bitter on his tongue. “That leopard… she was two steps ahead of us the whole damn time. Stalked us clean, waited us out, forced me right where she wanted me.” His lips thinned, frustration flickering sharp in his tone. “I thought I was better than that. Should’ve seen it.”
But the anger, as quickly as it flared, fizzled to ash. His shoulders lowered, and his voice dropped to a quieter register, almost reluctant. “She was just trying to survive..” The words carried no heat now, only something raw and tired. He rubbed at his brow with the back of his bandaged arm, sighing through his nose. Doesn’t matter, though. Man-eaters don’t get second chances. Whatever her story was, it ended here.
He stacked the last of the stones into place, leaving a gap at the top where smoke curled into the night. The cave breathed easier, the wind cut to a low moan instead of a shriek. He stepped back, hands on his hips, and the smell of the Fangs seeped in through the walls. Cold stone and dust. Nothing living, nothing fresh. Just age. Memory. The ghosts of things that had once stood tall here.
When Theea’s strained little joke broke the silence, he found himself chuckling despite it all. The sound was brief, low, warm in a way it hadn’t been before, echoing strangely in the stone hollow. She still had bite, even laid out half-stitched and pale. "Stubborn." He bent down for another stone, but the movement stirred something else in the shadows.
A sudden scuttle, claws on rock. A hiss, thin and sharp. Damien froze, then leaned lower, pulling one more stone free. What bolted out made him blink in disbelief. Small, fluffy, on all fours, tail puffed out like a bottlebrush. It scrambled across the cave floor with a little rawr! of protest, tiny teeth bared at a world too big to understand.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, crouching. His big hands caught the creature gently but firmly, a little squirm, a little mewl of outrage vibrating against his palms. He glanced over his shoulder at Theea, voice pitched louder now. “Look, Theea.”
From her spot, she might not see much—just the movement, the muffled noise of a tiny struggle. But when Damien stepped back into the firelight, the truth came with him. A young snow leopard cub, wide-eyed and trembling, its spotted coat soft under his rough grip. Its long tail brushed against Theea’s arm as he knelt beside her, its fur feather-soft.
Damien’s face was hard to read, lines of weariness and something deeper running across it. “She had a cub,” he said quietly. No judgment in his voice, no triumph. Just the heavy, simple truth of it.
His jaw worked, the muscle tight, a shadow carving deeper into his cheek in the flickering firelight. He kept stacking stones at the mouth of the cave, one after another, the scrape and grind of rock filling the silence between them. The weight of what she’d said pressed down, heavier than the stones.
“You don’t know,” he said finally, his voice low, rough. “I invited you into this. I knew what was out here, and I thought you could handle it. Thought you could handle it because I wanted to believe you were as capable as me. Maybe more. That’s why I brought you.” His hands paused, stone held in midair, then set down with more care than it deserved. “And maybe I wasn’t wrong. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re hurt because of me.”
The stone wall was waist-high, nearly finished, but his eyes weren’t on it anymore. They were on the fire, on the shadows moving against the wall like smoke. “I underestimated her,” he admitted, the words bitter on his tongue. “That leopard… she was two steps ahead of us the whole damn time. Stalked us clean, waited us out, forced me right where she wanted me.” His lips thinned, frustration flickering sharp in his tone. “I thought I was better than that. Should’ve seen it.”
But the anger, as quickly as it flared, fizzled to ash. His shoulders lowered, and his voice dropped to a quieter register, almost reluctant. “She was just trying to survive..” The words carried no heat now, only something raw and tired. He rubbed at his brow with the back of his bandaged arm, sighing through his nose. Doesn’t matter, though. Man-eaters don’t get second chances. Whatever her story was, it ended here.
He stacked the last of the stones into place, leaving a gap at the top where smoke curled into the night. The cave breathed easier, the wind cut to a low moan instead of a shriek. He stepped back, hands on his hips, and the smell of the Fangs seeped in through the walls. Cold stone and dust. Nothing living, nothing fresh. Just age. Memory. The ghosts of things that had once stood tall here.
When Theea’s strained little joke broke the silence, he found himself chuckling despite it all. The sound was brief, low, warm in a way it hadn’t been before, echoing strangely in the stone hollow. She still had bite, even laid out half-stitched and pale. "Stubborn." He bent down for another stone, but the movement stirred something else in the shadows.
A sudden scuttle, claws on rock. A hiss, thin and sharp. Damien froze, then leaned lower, pulling one more stone free. What bolted out made him blink in disbelief. Small, fluffy, on all fours, tail puffed out like a bottlebrush. It scrambled across the cave floor with a little rawr! of protest, tiny teeth bared at a world too big to understand.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, crouching. His big hands caught the creature gently but firmly, a little squirm, a little mewl of outrage vibrating against his palms. He glanced over his shoulder at Theea, voice pitched louder now. “Look, Theea.”
From her spot, she might not see much—just the movement, the muffled noise of a tiny struggle. But when Damien stepped back into the firelight, the truth came with him. A young snow leopard cub, wide-eyed and trembling, its spotted coat soft under his rough grip. Its long tail brushed against Theea’s arm as he knelt beside her, its fur feather-soft.
Damien’s face was hard to read, lines of weariness and something deeper running across it. “She had a cub,” he said quietly. No judgment in his voice, no triumph. Just the heavy, simple truth of it.
