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
Damien let her words settle a moment before answering, his eyes cutting toward the horizon like he might find the truth out there instead of in himself. “Rane didn’t leave much behind. No family of his own that I ever met. Just a few things that are probably long gone to snow, and whatever I carried forward.” His mouth flattened into something close to a smile, but it wasn’t one. “If anyone remembers him, it’s probably just me. And not all the remembering’s worth keeping.”
He shifted his weight, brushing his hands down his coat like he could scrape the cold from his palms. “Maybe you’re right, though. Maybe I’m not as cut off as I think. It's... hard to see past your own shadow, when you’ve lived in it a long time.” His gaze lingered on her, not sharp but considering, as though her presence alone was proof enough that the world didn’t quite end at the line of his boots.
When she spoke of herself, he listened. Really listened. Her honesty had a gravity to it, and he found himself answering without the armor he usually put between his thoughts and his tongue. “Changing the way you think… is very hard. Wood’ll bend if you heat it, metal if you beat it, but the mind…” He shook his head once. “The mind fights you. Holds on to what it knows, even if it’s poison. Maybe that’s why it feels selfish. You’re not just fighting the world, you’re fighting yourself. And that’s a kind of battle nobody else can fight for you.”
The words tasted strange coming out, but they rang true enough that he didn’t take them back. He glanced toward the shrine once more, the antler pale against the heap of offerings, then let his eyes drift to the windblown dark. “Seems maybe we both need to figure it out. What to keep, what to let go. What’s worth changing, and what’s just the bones left behind.”
He shifted his weight, brushing his hands down his coat like he could scrape the cold from his palms. “Maybe you’re right, though. Maybe I’m not as cut off as I think. It's... hard to see past your own shadow, when you’ve lived in it a long time.” His gaze lingered on her, not sharp but considering, as though her presence alone was proof enough that the world didn’t quite end at the line of his boots.
When she spoke of herself, he listened. Really listened. Her honesty had a gravity to it, and he found himself answering without the armor he usually put between his thoughts and his tongue. “Changing the way you think… is very hard. Wood’ll bend if you heat it, metal if you beat it, but the mind…” He shook his head once. “The mind fights you. Holds on to what it knows, even if it’s poison. Maybe that’s why it feels selfish. You’re not just fighting the world, you’re fighting yourself. And that’s a kind of battle nobody else can fight for you.”
The words tasted strange coming out, but they rang true enough that he didn’t take them back. He glanced toward the shrine once more, the antler pale against the heap of offerings, then let his eyes drift to the windblown dark. “Seems maybe we both need to figure it out. What to keep, what to let go. What’s worth changing, and what’s just the bones left behind.”
