Damien
oh, let's take a chance and roll the bones
try to forget all them enemies and debts
try to forget all them enemies and debts
Damien’s mouth curves in a sharp smile at her jab, the kind that cuts just enough to match hers. “And to think,” he drawls, lifting his glass in mock salute before finishing what’s left of it, “all you had to do was ask nicely.” The humor sits between them, quick and easy, but he doesn’t linger in it. He sets the glass down on the fountain’s rim with a soft clink, the gesture neat, as if shedding the joke so he can turn to the weightier part of her words.
He listens, arms folding loosely across his chest, head angled toward her. Murdered. Carved back to the brink. Broken up with because she chose a city over herself. The catalogue of it is brutal, but she lays it out without drama, and he respects that. The truth lands heavier for being unadorned.
“Leaders hurt more than most,” he says finally, voice even but pitched low. His gaze flicks briefly over the liquid gold where the fountain spills into the basin, watching the light fracture against it, before turning back to her. “Not because they deserve it. Just because they’re standing in front.” There’s no pity in the words, only recognition. It’s not advice, not comfort, just the kind of plain truth he traffics in.
He shifts his weight, pushing off the fountain so he can wander a slow step or two toward the dock’s edge, the sea air sharper out there. He gestures lightly with one hand for her to follow if she wants, a simple offer to move with him, to trade the stillness of the fountain for the shifting brightness of water and sails.
“You’re allowed to be bitter,” he adds after a beat, his tone gaining a rougher edge, almost a challenge. “You’re human. Or close enough.” A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, though it softens quickly. “The idea that leaders are supposed to be all.. perfect and carved out of stone is a lie. It’s better to be flesh and blood than to be brittle.”
His gaze flicks toward the sea, the sunlight glancing off the water like a thousand cutting edges. “Me, I try and just keep my distance from people. Easier that way.” The words came even, unburdened, but a pause lingered after as if the ease he claimed came at a cost. Solitude had been his choice, yes, but sometimes it pressed too close, an emptiness he carried like a shadow.
He listens, arms folding loosely across his chest, head angled toward her. Murdered. Carved back to the brink. Broken up with because she chose a city over herself. The catalogue of it is brutal, but she lays it out without drama, and he respects that. The truth lands heavier for being unadorned.
“Leaders hurt more than most,” he says finally, voice even but pitched low. His gaze flicks briefly over the liquid gold where the fountain spills into the basin, watching the light fracture against it, before turning back to her. “Not because they deserve it. Just because they’re standing in front.” There’s no pity in the words, only recognition. It’s not advice, not comfort, just the kind of plain truth he traffics in.
He shifts his weight, pushing off the fountain so he can wander a slow step or two toward the dock’s edge, the sea air sharper out there. He gestures lightly with one hand for her to follow if she wants, a simple offer to move with him, to trade the stillness of the fountain for the shifting brightness of water and sails.
“You’re allowed to be bitter,” he adds after a beat, his tone gaining a rougher edge, almost a challenge. “You’re human. Or close enough.” A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, though it softens quickly. “The idea that leaders are supposed to be all.. perfect and carved out of stone is a lie. It’s better to be flesh and blood than to be brittle.”
His gaze flicks toward the sea, the sunlight glancing off the water like a thousand cutting edges. “Me, I try and just keep my distance from people. Easier that way.” The words came even, unburdened, but a pause lingered after as if the ease he claimed came at a cost. Solitude had been his choice, yes, but sometimes it pressed too close, an emptiness he carried like a shadow.
