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 the hair fall through his fingers once more, slow and sure, like he was trying to braid calm into the night. The cave smelled of smoke and iron and the faint, sharp tang of antiseptic; everything else — the pain, the blood, the ache of not-enough sleep — narrowed to the soft pressure of her head against his chest and the tiny, contented rumbles of the cub. For a foolish, honest second he thought: keep this. Keep it all. But then practical things, the kind that had kept him alive when the world wanted to eat you, crept back in at the edges.
“You’re not carrying me,” she mumbled, half-asleep and still so defiant even when her voice got small. He let out a phantom of a laugh. “Not yet,” he said, low. “But if it comes to that—if the snow eats the trail or your ribs decide they won’t hold—I will. Across the tundra if I must.” He said it like a fact, not a vow wrapped in bravery, because the honest thing was he preferred facts. Promises sometimes broke on hard things.
His thumb found the small line of a fresh stitch where it pulled under her skin and he eased his hand away before the motion might spook her. “Mhm. I’ll make an offering, and... I'll find the words to ask.” He didn’t know how to swear it into law, but the thought of the cub without a place in the world made his jaw clench. He would figure it out. He always did.
Sleep wanted him like a weight. The adrenaline that had kept him moving all afternoon thinned out, and in its place came a weariness that made his limbs feel woolen. That tiredness was almost honest cruelty: it made him sentimental, made his edges dull. He didn’t like the person he became when he was tired — prone to thinking soft thoughts that meant trouble later — but tonight he let a few through anyway.
“You’ll make it home, Theea,” he said, softer now, the sentence more reassurance to himself than anything. “We’ll get you to a healer. We’ll get you warm food and a bed that isn’t a slab of stone.” He pictured it — small hearth, someone fussing over splints and stitches or healing magics, the cub curled by the fire like she belonged there. The image was a small, stubborn light. He held onto it.
He shifted a bit, easing so his weight wouldn’t press against her. Practicality was a kind of mercy; he had to guard the things that mattered. He curled an arm closer around her shoulders, careful, not clumsy: an assertion that he was there, present, not leaving. “Sleep,” he said, flat and gentle both. “I’ll stay awake, keep watch for a while longer. Make sure Aria doesn't get up to something.” He tried for a wink. Tried.
Aria snuffled and rearranged herself, a small warm body insisting the world could be tender, if you let it be. Damien watched her settle, then watched Theea’s breathing for a time. He closed his eyes for one long moment and felt the night like a living thing — cold around the edges, but not hungry now.
Another low sound left him, not quite a promise. “Don’t go thinking you’re not wanted,” he said into the dark, and because the cave took words and returned them softer, he added, quieter, “You’re not getting rid of me, Theea.” Then he listened to the quiet — to her breathing, to the small claws kneading fabric — and he kept watch.
“You’re not carrying me,” she mumbled, half-asleep and still so defiant even when her voice got small. He let out a phantom of a laugh. “Not yet,” he said, low. “But if it comes to that—if the snow eats the trail or your ribs decide they won’t hold—I will. Across the tundra if I must.” He said it like a fact, not a vow wrapped in bravery, because the honest thing was he preferred facts. Promises sometimes broke on hard things.
His thumb found the small line of a fresh stitch where it pulled under her skin and he eased his hand away before the motion might spook her. “Mhm. I’ll make an offering, and... I'll find the words to ask.” He didn’t know how to swear it into law, but the thought of the cub without a place in the world made his jaw clench. He would figure it out. He always did.
Sleep wanted him like a weight. The adrenaline that had kept him moving all afternoon thinned out, and in its place came a weariness that made his limbs feel woolen. That tiredness was almost honest cruelty: it made him sentimental, made his edges dull. He didn’t like the person he became when he was tired — prone to thinking soft thoughts that meant trouble later — but tonight he let a few through anyway.
“You’ll make it home, Theea,” he said, softer now, the sentence more reassurance to himself than anything. “We’ll get you to a healer. We’ll get you warm food and a bed that isn’t a slab of stone.” He pictured it — small hearth, someone fussing over splints and stitches or healing magics, the cub curled by the fire like she belonged there. The image was a small, stubborn light. He held onto it.
He shifted a bit, easing so his weight wouldn’t press against her. Practicality was a kind of mercy; he had to guard the things that mattered. He curled an arm closer around her shoulders, careful, not clumsy: an assertion that he was there, present, not leaving. “Sleep,” he said, flat and gentle both. “I’ll stay awake, keep watch for a while longer. Make sure Aria doesn't get up to something.” He tried for a wink. Tried.
Aria snuffled and rearranged herself, a small warm body insisting the world could be tender, if you let it be. Damien watched her settle, then watched Theea’s breathing for a time. He closed his eyes for one long moment and felt the night like a living thing — cold around the edges, but not hungry now.
Another low sound left him, not quite a promise. “Don’t go thinking you’re not wanted,” he said into the dark, and because the cave took words and returned them softer, he added, quieter, “You’re not getting rid of me, Theea.” Then he listened to the quiet — to her breathing, to the small claws kneading fabric — and he kept watch.
