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 second, when she tugged the blanket half-open toward him, he just watched. His instinct was to refuse—old habits of solitude digging in their heels—but then he caught the tremor in her arms, the way her teeth clenched faintly against another wave of pain. He exhaled slow, quiet, and peeled off his coat instead. The leather came away stiff with dried blood, the torn sleeve ragged where claws had raked him open. He dropped it to the side, the sound of it hitting stone flat and final, and shifted closer, his shirt clinging to his frame, sleeves shoved up as though work never stopped.
Only then did he let her blanket settle across both of them. His arm brushed hers, feather-soft, as though the smallest pressure might splinter her. He knew his own strength. Stone had no business leaning too hard on glass.
The cub wriggled, sprawled half on Theea and half against his chest, small paws stretching until one pressed into the muscle just above his heart. Damien sighed, not with annoyance but with a weary acceptance, as though the animal had made its claim and that was that. Maybe this was balance—their blood for its mother’s, its warmth in exchange for the cold still hanging in their bones. He couldn’t bring himself to push it away.
He watched Theea fuss over it, her fingers combing through its thick fur, and for once the harsh lines in her face softened into something young, unguarded. The sight tugged at him in a way he didn’t let show. He looked away, toward the fire, but the flicker of her lashes when she tilted her head dragged him back.
She asked him her question, voice quiet as the cub’s purr, as if pulling him with her into a safer, smaller world.
His jaw worked, a flicker of thought passing behind his eyes. “Rane,” he said finally, voice roughened. “The man who raised me. He always had a knife in his hand, working wood down to nothing. Little birds, antlers, spoons—whatever he could make from scraps. He started me on sticks when I was little. Said it’d teach me patience. Discipline.” A dry huff left him, shaking his head at the memory. “All it taught me back then was how to slice my own fingers open." He lifted his hand to show her some of the old, white scars. "But I kept at it. Since he disappeared… it's the only thing of his I can carry on that doesn't weigh me down.”
The cub let out a squeaky mewl, and Damien glanced down at it, the corner of his mouth twitching. He let his hand rest against its back, steadying the small, warm body sprawled across both of them. His fingers lingered there, a silent admission: this mattered more than he’d say out loud.
When his gaze lifted back to Theea, firelight caught the stubborn spark still burning through her exhaustion. He studied her for a moment longer than was polite, letting the silence stretch until it pressed with unspoken things. Then he broke it, low and careful.
“And you?” he asked. “Your father taught you to whittle… what else did he teach you?
Only then did he let her blanket settle across both of them. His arm brushed hers, feather-soft, as though the smallest pressure might splinter her. He knew his own strength. Stone had no business leaning too hard on glass.
The cub wriggled, sprawled half on Theea and half against his chest, small paws stretching until one pressed into the muscle just above his heart. Damien sighed, not with annoyance but with a weary acceptance, as though the animal had made its claim and that was that. Maybe this was balance—their blood for its mother’s, its warmth in exchange for the cold still hanging in their bones. He couldn’t bring himself to push it away.
He watched Theea fuss over it, her fingers combing through its thick fur, and for once the harsh lines in her face softened into something young, unguarded. The sight tugged at him in a way he didn’t let show. He looked away, toward the fire, but the flicker of her lashes when she tilted her head dragged him back.
She asked him her question, voice quiet as the cub’s purr, as if pulling him with her into a safer, smaller world.
His jaw worked, a flicker of thought passing behind his eyes. “Rane,” he said finally, voice roughened. “The man who raised me. He always had a knife in his hand, working wood down to nothing. Little birds, antlers, spoons—whatever he could make from scraps. He started me on sticks when I was little. Said it’d teach me patience. Discipline.” A dry huff left him, shaking his head at the memory. “All it taught me back then was how to slice my own fingers open." He lifted his hand to show her some of the old, white scars. "But I kept at it. Since he disappeared… it's the only thing of his I can carry on that doesn't weigh me down.”
The cub let out a squeaky mewl, and Damien glanced down at it, the corner of his mouth twitching. He let his hand rest against its back, steadying the small, warm body sprawled across both of them. His fingers lingered there, a silent admission: this mattered more than he’d say out loud.
When his gaze lifted back to Theea, firelight caught the stubborn spark still burning through her exhaustion. He studied her for a moment longer than was polite, letting the silence stretch until it pressed with unspoken things. Then he broke it, low and careful.
“And you?” he asked. “Your father taught you to whittle… what else did he teach you?
