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 felt her settle against him. The cave was quiet, except for the cub kneading at the blanket, the crackle of the fire, and the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing.
“Good,” he murmured back, low and rough. His fingers traced the line of her hair once more before finally letting them rest. The antiseptic had stung, the stitches burned a little in the shift of the night, but she had endured. That was all that mattered. That, and the cub.
The thought of Frey lingered at the edges of his mind. Aria was his responsibility, and he had his own way of seeing things done. But he also knew the world didn’t wait. Some favors had to be called in; some doors couldn’t be opened alone. He didn’t speak it aloud. Not tonight. Tonight he let the quiet do the talking, let her trust fill the space between them.
When sleep tugged at him, he yielded in small pieces. Not all of it; he would always leave a margin, a thread of awareness to catch the fire, to listen for the world pressing closer with the dawn. He shifted again, careful not to disturb her, letting the cub curl against him. A few sparks drifted skyward from the fire. Morning would bring people: mushers, hunters, the inevitable talk of the man-eater on the prowl. They could help him, her, Aria. They might even carry what needed carrying. He’d see to it the leopard's pelt came back with him, though whether by his hands or by convincing a strong sled team to haul it, that would remain to be seen.
He let the weight of her lean, the warmth of the small life pressed near, and the quiet of the cave lull him. Not peace. Not quite. But close enough. Close enough to let his mind rest for a while. His eyes closed.
And through the dim, drifting smoke and the soft breaths around him, he thought something he didn’t speak, not even to the dark: whatever storms were coming, whatever gods or snow or men might try to shove him off course, he wouldn’t leave this corner of the world without her.
Sleep took him like a tide pulling out to sea, light-footed and cautious, but he let it, for now. Aria murmured once more, settling, kneading, a heartbeat against his chest. He drifted with her, the last thoughts before the fire died low, before the wind whispered over frozen hills, already awake and testing the world.
“Good,” he murmured back, low and rough. His fingers traced the line of her hair once more before finally letting them rest. The antiseptic had stung, the stitches burned a little in the shift of the night, but she had endured. That was all that mattered. That, and the cub.
The thought of Frey lingered at the edges of his mind. Aria was his responsibility, and he had his own way of seeing things done. But he also knew the world didn’t wait. Some favors had to be called in; some doors couldn’t be opened alone. He didn’t speak it aloud. Not tonight. Tonight he let the quiet do the talking, let her trust fill the space between them.
When sleep tugged at him, he yielded in small pieces. Not all of it; he would always leave a margin, a thread of awareness to catch the fire, to listen for the world pressing closer with the dawn. He shifted again, careful not to disturb her, letting the cub curl against him. A few sparks drifted skyward from the fire. Morning would bring people: mushers, hunters, the inevitable talk of the man-eater on the prowl. They could help him, her, Aria. They might even carry what needed carrying. He’d see to it the leopard's pelt came back with him, though whether by his hands or by convincing a strong sled team to haul it, that would remain to be seen.
He let the weight of her lean, the warmth of the small life pressed near, and the quiet of the cave lull him. Not peace. Not quite. But close enough. Close enough to let his mind rest for a while. His eyes closed.
And through the dim, drifting smoke and the soft breaths around him, he thought something he didn’t speak, not even to the dark: whatever storms were coming, whatever gods or snow or men might try to shove him off course, he wouldn’t leave this corner of the world without her.
Sleep took him like a tide pulling out to sea, light-footed and cautious, but he let it, for now. Aria murmured once more, settling, kneading, a heartbeat against his chest. He drifted with her, the last thoughts before the fire died low, before the wind whispered over frozen hills, already awake and testing the world.
[FIN]
