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
That whether Safrin was fickle or not depended on who you asked made sense, and Damien gave a small nod, as if that answer fit neatly into the groove he’d expected. He didn’t doubt there were plenty who’d crossed the gods—out of arrogance, ignorance, or sheer bad luck—and just as many who’d been ground under by powers they couldn’t hope to reckon with. Cosmic wills had little concern for mortal flesh. He wouldn’t pretend to understand what that was like. Not yet, not with no thread tying him to them.
He listened as Deimos went on, steady as the pull of the sled, and let the words settle. Safrin jealous. Frey and Ludo less so. That was a hierarchy he could almost wrap his head around, like dealing with chiefs and lieutenants, each with their own pride and temper. But it was the part about them being like humans that caught him, surprised him. For a long beat he stayed quiet, boots crunching rhythmically in the snow, furs tugging at his shoulders with every stride.
The thought of gods carrying the same cracks and sharp edges as men did—greed, compassion, vanity, loyalty—somehow made them feel less distant. Human nature he could figure out, even if it was messy. Gods, though? That was always the territory of prayers whispered at night, or stories told like warnings around a fire. This felt different. Closer.
When Deimos mentioned perfection—or the lack of it—Damien huffed a short breath, something between amusement and resignation. “I wouldn’t expect perfection,” he said at last, voice even, but there was a spark of something else in his eyes. Curiosity. Wariness. That bone-deep need to measure truth for himself.
“Tell me,” he asked after a moment, glancing sidelong at the Sword, “did any of them disappoint you?”
He listened as Deimos went on, steady as the pull of the sled, and let the words settle. Safrin jealous. Frey and Ludo less so. That was a hierarchy he could almost wrap his head around, like dealing with chiefs and lieutenants, each with their own pride and temper. But it was the part about them being like humans that caught him, surprised him. For a long beat he stayed quiet, boots crunching rhythmically in the snow, furs tugging at his shoulders with every stride.
The thought of gods carrying the same cracks and sharp edges as men did—greed, compassion, vanity, loyalty—somehow made them feel less distant. Human nature he could figure out, even if it was messy. Gods, though? That was always the territory of prayers whispered at night, or stories told like warnings around a fire. This felt different. Closer.
When Deimos mentioned perfection—or the lack of it—Damien huffed a short breath, something between amusement and resignation. “I wouldn’t expect perfection,” he said at last, voice even, but there was a spark of something else in his eyes. Curiosity. Wariness. That bone-deep need to measure truth for himself.
“Tell me,” he asked after a moment, glancing sidelong at the Sword, “did any of them disappoint you?”
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
