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
He let her words come, heavy and halting, like stones pulled up from deep water. The part about her being there—reaching, almost saving her father—struck something raw in him, though not the way she might expect. He’d never had that chance. His own losses had been quick, merciless, over before he even knew what was happening. Sometimes he thought that was torture and it bound him even tighter to those he cared about. He refused to let another person wander out into the drifts and disappear. Other times - like now - he thought it was a mercy. Better to be blindsided than to live with the memory of your hands slipping. He couldn’t imagine the kind of weight she carried.
So he didn’t tell her it wasn’t her fault, didn’t try to patch over something unfixable with words that would only clang hollow. Instead he gave her the one thing he could: silence that didn’t buckle, silence she could lean against.
He shifted, feeding the fire another stick, and sparks spat up at the stone ceiling before fizzing out. The warmth pressed closer, and he eased his shoulder back against hers. He pressed a little closer this time, solid, unshakable. His hand gave hers a squeeze, gentle but certain, his scarred fingers almost engulfing hers. Her skin felt delicate against his, softer than he had any right to be touching, and for one strange moment he found himself tracing the small lines of her hand in his mind, memorizing them.
When she asked if he knew how to ride, his gaze stayed in the flames, watching them twist. The question pulled something buried loose.
“I did. When I was real young. My parents had this mountain pony—tough little bastard, almost fast as a unicorn.” A faint smirk touched his mouth, more memory than mirth. “Don’t remember much. I figure Rane traded it after… well. After.” His shoulders hitched, like he was trying to shrug the thought away before it could drag him under. He turned his eyes back to her, dark and intent. “Would be nice to learn again.”
The cub chose that moment to bat at Theea’s hair, tiny claws snagging a strand, its wide eyes bright with mischief. Damien huffed, and nudged her shoulder with his own, softer this time. “If I’m keeping this thing, you’re naming it. Pretty sure it’s a girl.”
His voice was low, a little rough, but there was an ease there too, something warmer than he’d meant to give.
So he didn’t tell her it wasn’t her fault, didn’t try to patch over something unfixable with words that would only clang hollow. Instead he gave her the one thing he could: silence that didn’t buckle, silence she could lean against.
He shifted, feeding the fire another stick, and sparks spat up at the stone ceiling before fizzing out. The warmth pressed closer, and he eased his shoulder back against hers. He pressed a little closer this time, solid, unshakable. His hand gave hers a squeeze, gentle but certain, his scarred fingers almost engulfing hers. Her skin felt delicate against his, softer than he had any right to be touching, and for one strange moment he found himself tracing the small lines of her hand in his mind, memorizing them.
When she asked if he knew how to ride, his gaze stayed in the flames, watching them twist. The question pulled something buried loose.
“I did. When I was real young. My parents had this mountain pony—tough little bastard, almost fast as a unicorn.” A faint smirk touched his mouth, more memory than mirth. “Don’t remember much. I figure Rane traded it after… well. After.” His shoulders hitched, like he was trying to shrug the thought away before it could drag him under. He turned his eyes back to her, dark and intent. “Would be nice to learn again.”
The cub chose that moment to bat at Theea’s hair, tiny claws snagging a strand, its wide eyes bright with mischief. Damien huffed, and nudged her shoulder with his own, softer this time. “If I’m keeping this thing, you’re naming it. Pretty sure it’s a girl.”
His voice was low, a little rough, but there was an ease there too, something warmer than he’d meant to give.
