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 let Deimos’ words about companions sit in the back of his mind, leaving an impression. Maybe he'd consider a companion of his own. There wasn’t much more to ask, not now, not while they trudged through the snow with a sled groaning under its weight. So he set his shoulder into the pull again, boots crunching in rhythm with Deimos’, the direction of their path bending back toward the Citadel.
The notion of a recall weapon, though, that stuck. Damien's lips formed into a smile, genuine in its approval. “That’s smart. More than smart. A weapon that comes back to hand? Practical. Trustworthy. I like that.” The thought of it sparked something that felt like real motivation. Something he could rely on, instead of improvising against monsters that gave no second chances.
But when the conversation circled around to the gods, Damien’s focus shifted. He kept his expression even, though his attention sharpened in that quiet, measuring way of his. He thought he caught the faintest flicker of surprise in Deimos’ expression.
“No,” he admitted after a beat, his voice low but steady. “I haven’t met any of them. Not heralds, not the old gods, not anyone.” He let out a slow breath, visible in the frost. “Part of me wonders if I’d even want to. Or if they’d want anything to do with me.” His tone stayed plain, unembellished, but the words carried a hint of the truth he wouldn’t name outright—that gnawing fear of rejection, of falling short.
After a moment, he glanced sidelong at Deimos, the Citadel’s distant outline just beginning to suggest itself through the haze of snow. “Safrin’s given you opportunities, then. What’s it like? Having that kind of tie to her?”
The notion of a recall weapon, though, that stuck. Damien's lips formed into a smile, genuine in its approval. “That’s smart. More than smart. A weapon that comes back to hand? Practical. Trustworthy. I like that.” The thought of it sparked something that felt like real motivation. Something he could rely on, instead of improvising against monsters that gave no second chances.
But when the conversation circled around to the gods, Damien’s focus shifted. He kept his expression even, though his attention sharpened in that quiet, measuring way of his. He thought he caught the faintest flicker of surprise in Deimos’ expression.
“No,” he admitted after a beat, his voice low but steady. “I haven’t met any of them. Not heralds, not the old gods, not anyone.” He let out a slow breath, visible in the frost. “Part of me wonders if I’d even want to. Or if they’d want anything to do with me.” His tone stayed plain, unembellished, but the words carried a hint of the truth he wouldn’t name outright—that gnawing fear of rejection, of falling short.
After a moment, he glanced sidelong at Deimos, the Citadel’s distant outline just beginning to suggest itself through the haze of snow. “Safrin’s given you opportunities, then. What’s it like? Having that kind of tie to her?”
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
